


The Woman Who Wanted to be Ordinary

by freckleslikeconstellations



Series: You're Broken and He's Beautiful [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Multi, Sexy Times, Strong Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 18:40:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 40,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6435916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckleslikeconstellations/pseuds/freckleslikeconstellations
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fun, laughter and a happily ever after look to be finally in sight for Mycroft and you and all of your friends. </p><p>But with Moriarty lurking ever so presently in the background, and the war in Afghanistan rearing its ugly head, one thing's certain-no one will make it unscathed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Woman Who Wanted to be Ordinary

**Author's Note:**

> Hi,  
> So we have come to the end of this series and, before you read the last part I just want to thank you all for your support. :) You have all been amazing as ever, and I hope you will continue to read and enjoy more of my fics. :)

**June: Five Months since last encountering Moriarty**

 

“F/N,” Greg hisses, beckoning you forwards to the kitchen area as soon as you step into the dining room. 

 

Sunlight streams through the kitchen window as you approach, dazzling your eyes. You stop and look at him from a distance. Your brow furrows. 

 

He’s fully dressed, but he’s got a white towel flung around his shoulders, which catches the droplets from his dripping hair. His shoulders are hunched and he’s got an urgent expression on his face as he beckons you forwards again hurriedly. 

 

You join him by the counter. 

 

“Can you do me a favour? Can you get Molly out of the house today and only bring her back once the party’s started?” he asks in a low voice. His chocolate eyes fix on you hopefully. 

 

You frown a little at the mention of the party. You’d completed your last ever university exam a couple of days ago and the party being thrown tonight is a chance for Mycroft, Sherlock, Greg and you to celebrate the end of your respective exams and say goodbye to the house, which Mycroft, Sherlock and you will all be leaving tomorrow. Mycroft and you will be heading to the flat and Sherlock will be going home. Molly and John, who will of course be departing like everyone else for the summer, will be returning to the university in September, having yet to complete their lengthier courses. As a result of your imminent departure you’d rather been hoping to spend the last day that you could in the house. 

 

“Please F/N,” Greg implores, looking at you with puppy-dog eyes. 

 

You tilt your head on one side. As much as you want to help the thought of trying to entertain Molly all day and keep her away from the house sounds a little challenging, especially when you've both already bought your dresses for tonight. 

 

“Why?” you ask as you come out of your thought. 

 

He frowns and looks around. He ducks his head down close to yours and your eyes widen. “If I tell you,” he begins, grabbing hold of your shoulders; “You have to promise not to breathe a word of it to Molly. Can you keep your mouth shut if you’re gonna be around her all day?” You haven’t agreed to anything yet, but eager to find out what’s the cause of this little mystery you nod. Greg lets out a little breath. His hands momentarily tighten, before they soften against you. “I'm going to propose,” he reveals.

 

Your whole face brightens. “Oh my God, Greg, that’s brilliant”- you screech. 

 

Greg makes some frantic gestures for you to keep your voice down, before your hug swallows him up. 

 

“F/N?” a bleary voice says, coming from behind you. Both Greg and you let go of each other and shift around. When you see Mycroft standing there, just having come out of his bedroom and wearing nothing but his boxer shorts and grey vest, whilst he runs his hand through his hair in a near perfect imitation of when you’d first met you can’t help but laugh. Greg joins you and Mycroft looks at you both in confusion. 

 

“It’s all right,” Greg tells him, “It was a platonic hug.”

 

Mycroft nods, but he still looks a little lost. “What’s going on?” he asks as you take pity on him and wander across. 

 

“Nothing, just looking forward to spending time together with everyone tonight that’s all,” you tell him, standing on your tiptoes and pressing a quick kiss against his cheek, before you pat him on the shoulder and depart. 

 

*

 

You end up getting Molly out of the house by pretending that you've changed your mind about the f/c dress you bought and want to find another one. 

 

She’d huffed a little at first and said that she’d wanted to spend the day in the house, getting it all decorated and ready for tonight. But when you’d continued and pleaded with her she’d finally given in. 

 

You can tell that she’s getting a little anxious though when it’s gone lunchtime and you _still_ haven’t made any progress on the dress front. 

 

“Are you sure that one doesn’t suit you F/N?” she asks, from where she’s sitting on the black, square Ottoman opposite the dressing room when you come out it in yet another f/c dress and give her a bit of an uncomfortable twirl. 

 

You pull a bit of a face and shake your head; your hands go up to your arms self-consciously. “No, the sleeves are too short. Look at the way they puff out. They make my arms look all fat and awful.”

 

Molly looks at your arms-which are definitely looking a lot more toned since you've started going to self-defence classes with her-a little sceptically. “I think you’re just being fussy,” she replies, crossing her legs as she looks up at you, “Besides I really think we should be getting back, the house is never going to be ready at this rate”-

 

“It’s fine,” you tell her, twisting a little and adjusting the fabric of the dress, “I texted Mycroft, whilst I was getting changed. I told him where everything is and he said that he’s going to handle it.”

 

“Oh _F/N,”_ Molly says at your lie, unfolding her legs and leaning back against the wall, “I know you love Mycroft and everything, and I know he’s super-organized, but we can’t leave it to them; all men are absolute rubbish at decorating. You should have seen my dad when mum left him in charge of the Christmas decorations one year. He was utterly hopeless.” You frown at her. She lets out a sigh, runs her hand back through her hair and looks at you. “This isn't about something else is it? I mean I know you’re pretty attached to the house and that you must be sad to be leaving it”-

 

You cut her off with a dramatic sigh as you decide to go along with what she’s just brought up. You sit down next to her. “I am feeling a little… _odd,_ about it,” you confess. 

 

“That’s understandable,” she says, patting at your knee reassuringly, “But you can’t try and pretend that it’s not happening.” She looks at you. “You _are_ looking forward to living with Mycroft aren't you?”

 

“Yeah,” you admit, grinning at her. Truthfully the fact that you’re going to be living with Mycroft is why you don’t feel half as sad about leaving the house as you’d thought you would. You feel sadder about the fact that you won’t be seeing everyone as much. 

 

“Good,” she breathes. 

 

“I am going to miss you though,” you say, deciding to be more honest with her. She hugs you and you clutch at each other for a moment, just breathing each other in. An old woman comes out of another dressing room and looks at you both fondly, a thousand memories in her eyes. 

 

* 

 

Molly’s lighter and more understanding with you after that and the rest of the afternoon’s spent pleasantly. You have a nice lunch with each other; before you giggle at the lacy lingerie you come across, whilst you continue your pretend quest for the perfect dress. 

 

You get back to the house at ten minutes to seven. The party was due to start at half-six, so you hope that you've delayed your arrival enough for Greg’s satisfaction. 

 

As soon as Molly sees that the hallway looks completely like it did this morning though she huffs, _“See?_ I told you the boys would never manage, they've probably only done the living room.”

 

You fight back a smile. “Why don’t we go and change?” you suggest, determined to keep her from seeing the living room until you’re both ready. 

 

She nods and you call out to the boys that you’ll be there soon, before you both hurry upstairs, giggling a little as you nearly trip. You converge in your room and end up spilling out all the random cute accessories you’d both ended up buying onto your bed. 

 

“I’m glad you decided to stick with this dress in the end,” Molly says, going over to where your original dress is hanging in your wardrobe and examining it. “It does suit you.” 

 

You nod, feeling tired but happy that she’s still none the wiser. 

 

The next twenty minutes or so are taken up with you both hurriedly dressing and applying each other’s make-up. 

 

“Can I go down first this time?” you ask, leaning back once you finish doing Molly’s eyes. 

 

She nods, blinking as she leans back and examining herself in the mirror. 

 

You smile, before you leave her to her own devices and go downstairs. 

 

The living room usually looks amazing when you throw a party, but tonight it looks absolutely stunning. The entrance is framed by two dusty pink heart-shaped balloons, which bob about on their strings. More balloons are in each corner and a line of heart-shaped confetti in red, white and purple have been trailed about the coffee table, which is full of cocktails that have heart-shaped straws. Photographs have been put along all of the walls, showing everyone from the first-year of university right up to the present day. It’s like standing in a time capsule that’s filled with love. Your own heart swells just from looking at it. “Wow,” you breathe. 

 

“Thank God _one_ of them likes it,” Greg quips. A grin appears on your face as your eyes go to him. He looks quite possibly the smartest you've ever seen him in his dark suit, brown shirt and red tie. His shoes have been polished within an inch of their life and he’s definitely attempted to flatten his hair. In short if Molly doesn’t seem impressed when she sees him then you’ll know she’s gone mad. Though you are a little confused by the small toy bear he’s holding. 

 

Mycroft-looking smart himself in a grey suit, white shirt and blue tie-comes across to hand you a drink. “Looking as beautiful as ever,” he murmurs, before he kisses you on the cheek and hands you the drink. Your fingers brush against each other’s teasingly as he does so. 

 

“You wouldn't believe the amount of work this took,” Greg breathes, wiping imaginary sweat from his brow and looking tired but happy. 

 

“I can tell,” you say with a smile. 

 

“Hey, you missed a treat earlier F/N,” Greg says mischievously. 

 

“Did I?” you ask, fighting back a smile when you notice that Mycroft suddenly looks embarrassed. 

 

“Yeah,” Greg confesses. “This one,” he jerks his thumb at Mycroft, “Had his sleeves rolled up and was showing off his arms to us all.” You grin, taken back to that first breakfast once again, and Mycroft opens his mouth defensively. “Though,” Greg muses, “I suppose that seeing his arms is old hat to you now that you've”-

 

Mycroft clears his throat prominently. You blush. 

 

“Ah, you might be a hot-shot now Mycroft with your swanky first job in government lined up, but you’ll always be the guy who needed advice about F/N to me,” Greg teases. 

 

Mycroft ducks his head, looking embarrassed. You, on the other hand, feeling proud as you always do whenever Mycroft’s job is mentioned, lean up and kiss him on the cheek, curling your fingers around his wrist as you do so. 

 

“I think Molly’s coming,” John says suddenly, getting up from where he’s been sitting alongside Sherlock on the settee. Sherlock follows suit just a moment later. 

 

Mycroft and you go off to the side, so that Greg will be the first thing Molly sees when she steps inside. 

 

You hear the soft clink of heels against the floor and then Molly, looking a little shy, comes around the corner into the room, looking beautiful in her long, elegant black and white dress with her hair bunched on top of her head. She gasps. Her eyes go to Greg. 

 

He goes across to her and hands her the bear. She looks at it for a moment with a fond smile, before her eyes go back to him. “Molly Hooper,” he breathes, and you can feel your own heart fluttering inside your chest so God knows how Molly feels. She lowers the bear, her attention fully on Greg. Mycroft shifts beside you and places his free hand upon your waist. You cover it with your hand as your heart beats unevenly. “I think I’ve probably loved you ever since you helped me with my luggage that first day we met”-Molly laughs, already looking teary, and your fingers tighten against Mycroft’s-“But I think it’s really been this last year or so that I properly realized just how much you mean to me and just how much I want to be with you.” He takes a little breath. His hands reach to take hold of Molly’s free one. “Tomorrow,” he says, grasping onto the tips of her fingers, “We’ll be away from each other. Then in September you’ll be back here and I’ll hopefully be doing my entrance exams into the police.” He lets out another breath. “But, whilst we’re here, and with all of our friends around us, I want to make a promise to you, if you’ll let me.” Nervous laughter flutters around the room. Molly looks as if she’s in a trance and the only thing she can see is Greg. He takes a small red box out of his pocket and goes down on one knee, still clutching at her hand with his. “Molly Hooper,” he breathes, “Will you marry me?”

 

Molly nods almost instantly. Then she flings the bear onto the floor, throws herself into Greg’s arms and lets out a little fluttery laugh against his shoulder. 

 

“Was that a yes?” Greg checks, pulling back from her. 

 

“Yes you idiot! Yes!” she says, wiping at her eyes. Greg just has time to let out a bark of laughter, before Molly tugs him down into a kiss. You laugh and clap along with everybody else, feeling both relieved and emotional at the thought of two of your best friends getting a chance at a happily ever after with one another. “Did you know?” Molly asks you as soon as she and Greg pull apart. 

 

“Since this morning,” you grin. 

 

“Oh my God,” she squeals, before she adds, “And I was so annoyed with you earlier too”- she turns to the others- “I kept saying that we had to get back to the house and I thought F/N was just being ridiculous, but all this time”- she breaks off and squeals again, before she goes across to hug you.

 

Everyone laughs. 

 

 

**March-One Year and Two Months since last encountering Moriarty**

 

Molly and Greg get married nine months later on a beautiful spring lit day. The ceremony is a small and intimate one in an old, redbrick country house that has the most amazing lawn and gardens. It feels like another glorious step into adulthood, and as you stand off to the side as one of the bridesmaids and catch Mycroft’s-the best man’s-eye you can’t help but think that it could be the pair of you saying your vows to one another one day. You hope it will be. The corner of Mycroft’s lips twitch upward and you know that he hopes for such a thing too. He inclines his head a fraction, before his eyes go back to the happy couple. Your own follow suit. 

 

Molly looks stunning in her beautiful ivory gown and Greg looks like he’s really found his place in the world as he stands facing her in his dark suit. But what with him just having managed to get into the Metropolitan police and now sharing a flat with the woman he’s now marrying you think that maybe he has. They seem to glow as they look at one another. Tears prick your eyes. 

 

There’s a sense of jubilation at the reception, which is being held in another room at the same venue, especially when after Mycroft’s best man speech Greg comments, “Ah, I knew he’d do a good speech. That’s the reason I made him best man, that and because I could say that ladies and gentlemen, there is no need for panic, one of the bridesmaids has already gotten off with the best man! Tradition is restored!” 

 

Laughter rings out, but Mycroft turns his head away. Somehow, despite the fact that he’s slowly become more confident in his relationship with you, not to mention that he’s flourishing in his job, he still manages to blush like a child whenever his relationship with you is brought up in an embarrassing manner. You smile and nudge at his shoulder, before you cup at his cheek as he looks back at you. 

 

“What did I tell you?” Greg says with a predictable roll of his eyes. 

 

Mycroft and you both blush as everyone’s attention goes to you and laughter echoes around the hall once more. 

 

“I think my next lesson for you Mycroft will be on how to propose,” Greg winks, and Mycroft and you shift away from each other, blushing furiously. 

 

 

**January-Three Years since last encountering Moriarty**

 

“No,” you say, crossing your arms from where you’re sitting at the bottom of the bed in your black top and comfy navy jogging bottoms. The bedside lamp sends a soft, orange glow out towards you. 

 

“Its already been decided. I can’t undo it,” Mycroft sighs, twisting around as he tugs his braces off. 

 

You run a hand across your forehead. You’re both tired. You know you are. You've finally managed to stop running about doing part-time jobs and got a three-year contract in an office. It’s just dealing with enquiries and updating the system, but it’s still a start. Mycroft’s been working long hours, hence the fact that you’re only just now-at eleven o’ clock at night-getting the chance to update each other about one another’s days. 

 

“I don’t see why”- you begin, unable to help yourself from arguing the point, despite the fact that you don’t want to row with him. 

 

“Oh F/N,” Mycroft says, tossing his braces on the bed now and beginning to unbutton his shirt. Your eyes trail down to the chest hair that’s getting slowly revealed without being able to help it. “Try and be sensible about this”-

 

“I _am_ being sensible,” you say, tearing your eyes away from his chest and standing up. Mycroft eyes your still folded arms with some trepidation and his fingers still at a button that’s three-quarters of the way down his shirt. “But I don’t see why Jane-or are you going to start calling her _Anthea_ again now?”- Mycroft sighs-“Should get to be your personal assistant”-

 

“I need someone,” Mycroft protests, hands abandoning his shirt as they go to wave about, “You know I do. My responsibilities have gone up and I”-

 

“Why contact _her_ though? You haven’t even spoken to each other in years”-

 

“Because I thought she might need someone,” Mycroft says, ripping off his shirt now with all the angry strength that he can summon and throwing it on the bed, “I thought an opportunity for her to prove herself might be good for her.”

 

You stare at each other for a moment. Mycroft with angry, frustrated eyes and you with suspicious ones. Finally you let out a breath and sink back down onto the edge of the bed, still with your arms folded. 

 

“I could have done that job,” you mutter, running a hand back through your hair and upsetting your ponytail in the process. 

 

“I know you could my love, but you've got your office job,” Mycroft frowns, “Besides,” he says, unbuckling his belt and coming to sit beside you, before he tugs your hair free of its chains, “You’d probably hate it there, and in any case Anthea”-you look at him-“We’re colleagues now F/N,” Mycroft protests. “I can hardly go around calling her Jane if she doesn’t want to be known by that name.” He swallows. “What I was trying to say was that she wasn't exactly jumping for joy at the prospect. She _like_ you”-

 

“Don’t,” you utter, unfolding your arms and looking at your knees, “Don’t compare me to her. We’re nothing alike.” 

 

Mycroft looks at you with a soft understanding about his face and takes your hand in his. “She just wants to move on from the past. Try and picture how _you’d_ feel if you were living on your own, with no friends”-

 

“You don’t know that she has no friends,” you counter defensively. 

 

“I can _guess_ , F/N,” he says with a weary kind of patience that makes something inside you squirm. “Anyway, _you’d_ want someone to give you a chance, wouldn't you? Hmm?” Mycroft pushes, toying gently with your fingers. “That’s _all_ you’d want.” 

 

“I guess so,” you mutter, eyeing your knees. 

 

Mycroft chuckles and uses his fingers to tilt your head until you’re looking into his eyes. “Do you know why I made such an effort to contact her again and ask her?” he questions. You shake your head. “Because I know, and I know that you know, despite the fact you’d never admit it, how easily that could have been you.”

 

“If you’re trying to win me over”- you begin a little warningly, though there’s a smile tugging at your lips all the same. 

 

“I'm just trying to keep you happy by being honest with you,” he says sincerely. 

 

You peck at his lips briefly to hide the smile that’s suddenly brimming on your face. Your eyes dive deliberately down to his chest. “There is _another_ way that you could keep me happy, if you’re not too tired to.”

 

“What might that be?” Mycroft hums knowingly, which is all the incentive you need to straddle his waist and push him down onto the bed. 

 

Once it’s all over and the both of you are just lying there in a post-coital glow, completely sated, you roll onto your side towards him and ask, “There’s something else isn't there?” You trail circles into his skin. He looks at you. “You were doing that clingy thing you do during sex when there’s something wrong,” you tell him quietly. 

 

Mycroft huffs out a breath and looks away. “You’ll be bringing down the British government with knowledge like that,” he tells you, before when you just carry on looking at him studiously he admits, “Yes, there is something.” You pull your hand away from him, ready to listen. But he just grabs at it with his own and places it against his stomach for a moment, before he half-turns towards you and says, “Do you remember when we talked a little bit about security before and the measures that could be put into place?”-

 

You huff out a breath. “I don’t want cameras in the flat”-

 

“But what with my new responsibilities and the longer, more unpredictable hours I’ll have to work I”-

 

“No Mycroft, I’ve told you before,” you say, pulling your hand away from him, “I don’t want cameras or bugs or anything like that here. They just remind me of everything that happened before and I want to get away from all that.”

 

Mycroft turns towards you properly and places a hand on your hip. “But F/N”-

 

“I want to be normal,” you say, your eyes hard as they meet his, “Ordinary, you know I do, and normal people, they-they don’t have bugs or cameras in their flat, they just don’t.”

 

“I want to keep you safe,” he persists, sounding more desperate. 

 

“I _am_ safe,” you tell him, and he looks at you doubtfully, “I know I still have nightmares from time to time, and I still think of everything occasionally, of course I do, but at the same time its been ages since Moriarty last did anything to any of us. I know…I know he could just be out there, waiting for his perfect opportunity, but I don’t want to live my life like that, waiting for it to all fall apart again, I just don’t. I’ve already agreed to have security people following me around to keep me safe, isn't that enough?”

 

Mycroft huffs out a breath and sits up. “The thing is,” he says, as his hands drop over his knees, “I'm not sure if it is, not any more.” 

 

You sit up and trace his knuckles with your finger. “How come?” 

 

He looks at you and a little breath escapes his mouth. His eyes shine with something both serious and painful in the low light of the bedside lamp. “I'm not just worried about Moriarty now. Of course he will always be a concern to me, but with all the new responsibilities I have there might be, in all likelihood, other people who wish to harm me and who will do so through hurting you. Add that to the fact that Sherlock’s getting more well known in his little job as a consulting detective and you’re in an unfortunate prime spot to be targeted.” You look at him, suddenly realizing how big an issue this is. “So you see,” he says, lying back down and staring at the ceiling, “If you could just relax your guard a little on this matter, then, in all honesty, I’d feel a lot happier.”

 

You twist around and trace circles into his stomach for a moment. Something seems to soften inside him at your touch. You draw your hand back. “Would one be enough? Just by the main entranceway?”

 

Mycroft wriggles a little uncomfortably. You frown at him. “I’d rather been thinking of one in every room, excluding the bedroom and bathroom of course. That way if anything was to happen the better the coverage.” You carry on frowning at him. “But,” he says, seeing that you’re clearly not going to desist until he relents, “ _One_ would definitely be a start.” Your lips quirk upward.

 

*

 

The camera’s installed the next day. It’s put above the corner of the main door and despite the fact that its red, blinking light instantly makes you frown and the sight of it causes something to go straight through you, you have to admit that you find it sweet how much of an obvious priority it is to Mycroft. He takes time off work to observe its fitting, and as soon as it’s up and proven to work you see that some weight instantly lifts from his shoulders. It makes a soft breath leave your mouth. If the camera makes him that happy, you think, then it can stay. 

 

*

 

Sherlock makes you laugh when he first sees the camera on a Saturday a few days later. He pulls funny faces in front of it just to make you giggle and Mycroft scowl. 

 

“That’s wasted footage,” your boyfriend comments in a long-suffering way. You smirk and sip at the juice in the cup you’re holding. 

 

“Nothing’s wasted in Philip’s opinion,” Sherlock says with a wink at you. 

 

You lift your head up from the cup and wrinkle your nose. _“Philip?”_ you ask. 

 

Sherlock nods, “It’s what the camera’s called, didn't you know? I named it after an unfortunate man I met through work”-

 

“Ah yes Sherlock, do tell us how your little job is going won’t you?” Mycroft jests, “Have you found enough money to go towards your miniature love shack with John yet?”

 

You roll your eyes. It appears that just because the Holmes brothers now have jobs doesn’t mean that they won’t argue, _or_ that they've grown more mature around each other. 

 

“Yes, in a manner of speaking,” Sherlock says, drawing himself up. 

 

 _“Really?”_ Mycroft asks, sounding astonished as he rests his chin on top of his hands, which are in a prayer position on top of the kitchen counter. “Do tell.”

 

Again you roll your eyes. Whenever Sherlock’s got on Mycroft’s nerves, Mycroft’s been quick to remind him how his own life is in a better order than his brother’s. 

 

“John and I are going to take a little flat in Baker Street, 221B”-

 

“And who, pray tell, is the unfortunate landlord?” Mycroft asks, though you can tell by the way that he’s lifted his chin up slightly that he’s paying his brother his full attention. You smile. 

 

“Land _lady_ , actually,” Sherlock clarifies.

 

“I stand corrected,” Mycroft nods.

 

Sherlock shifts his position, “Do you remember when John and I went to America?” he asks. 

 

Mycroft straightens up and folds his arms. He tilts his head on one side. “Ah, yes, when John had a break from university and you were on a longer one from working, called _unemployment_ , I believe”-Sherlock scowls-“Before in an attempt to stop me nagging and Mummy from fretting you decided that it would be a good idea to harass and gatecrash poor Gregory at work”-

 

“I didn't gatecrash _anyone_ ”- Sherlock hisses. 

 

“Well I don’t believe you were invited,” Mycroft remarks coolly, raising an eyebrow.

 

“You were saying, about America,” you get in before either of them can speak again. Mycroft looks a little chagrined at your words, whilst Sherlock looks triumphant.

 

“Yes,” he says, “Anyway, whilst there I managed to help a British woman”-

 

“Ah, that’s what you’re calling the tangled mess you got involved in,” Mycroft interrupts. 

 

Sherlock scowls at him as if to say, ‘Do you want to be the one to tell the story?’ but Mycroft simply waves a hand at him to continue. 

 

“Anyway,” Sherlock says, looking ruffled as he looks at you rather than at his brother, “The point is, she’s looking for a couple of lodgers”-

 

“At a reasonable price I presume?” Mycroft smirks and Sherlock nods irritably. 

 

“That’s great Sherlock, what’s this woman like? Is she nice?” you ask in a desperate attempt to keep the brothers from bickering again. 

 

Sherlock nods and you smile encouragingly, but to your dismay he doesn’t offer anything else for you to go on. 

 

“Well,” you say, when you can tell from how the brothers are just staring at one another and thoughtfully sizing each other up that there won’t be any more talking for a bit, “Philip and I enjoyed that, I have to say.” Then, as both brothers start out of their daze, you go to the counter, place your cup down in front of Mycroft and walk out of the flat into the cool, grey air. 

 

Mycroft frowns as Sherlock gives him a knowing smirk. He knows that he’s going to have to work hard to make it up to you tonight. 

 

* 

 

Philip-the camera that is, not Philip Anderson his namesake-has three children three months later when you finally relent to having more cameras put up. Everywhere in the flat-aside from the bedroom and bathroom-is now completely covered by them. Thankfully though, Sherlock’s too busy to name them. 

 

 

**November-Three Years and Ten Months since last encountering Moriarty**

 

To say that things are a little tense at 221B the night before John’s due to leave for Afghanistan would be an understatement. To say that things have been tense from the very moment that John announced he was going to Afghanistan would _also_ be an understatement. 

 

“Are we going to talk about this?” John asks, stepping towards where Sherlock’s curled up in the armchair by the crackling fire, looking all moody and pensive with his head bowed.

 

The wind and rain lashes at the windows, causing them to rattle slightly. 

 

“Hmm?” is the only response Sherlock gives. 

 

John shifts his position. “About me going to Afghanistan? Sherlock, we really need to talk about this. I'm leaving first thing tomorrow, we can’t avoid it any more.”

 

“Not avoiding it,” Sherlock says, shifting his own position so that his feet dangle over the arm of the chair. 

 

“Yes you are,” John says, “You've been avoiding it ever since I first said I was going”-

 

“Why do you think that might be?” Sherlock retorts, getting up and going across to the kitchen. 

 

“I don’t know,” John says sassily, whirling around, “Why don’t you tell me? _You’re_ the consulting detective.”

 

Sherlock huffs out a breath and feebly rinses out a cup that he’d poured some chemicals into earlier so that he can use it for tea. 

 

“Here,” John says, going across to him and taking the cup from him, “Let me do that, you never do it properly.”

 

Sherlock stands back, his fists clenching. “Doesn't matter about the cup.”

 

“Huh?” John asks, not hearing him properly over the running water. 

 

“I said that it doesn’t matter about the cup John,” Sherlock says more loudly. 

 

John switches the tap off and turns to him. He puts the cup aside with a frown. Sherlock looks oddly flushed and the colour contrasts horribly with his pale skin, whilst his hands, still curled up into fists, tremble slightly. He doesn’t even look at John. “You do know that I’ll come back don’t you?” John asks softly, taking a tiny step forwards. 

 

“ _You_ don’t even know that,” Sherlock says, raising his eyes to slowly meet John’s. 

 

John’s face softens. “Yeah I do,” he murmurs. Sherlock looks at him. “ _Someone_ has to keep an eye on you.” Sherlock smiles for one glorious moment, before his face becomes serious again. 

 

“But why take the chance that you won’t?” he asks, before he comments, “It’s not your battle to fight.”

 

“Sweetheart,” John says, linking his hands with Sherlock’s, “It’s _everyone’s_ battle.” Sherlock still doesn’t look convinced. John puts his hands on his shoulders. “Think of it this way,” he says, “Every time you helped F/N and your brother at university and every time you take on someone’s case, you do it not because it’s necessarily your battle to fight but because you want to help, because you want to understand. It’s the same here. I’ve got to go. I’ve got to help if I can.”

 

“But _I_ need you,” Sherlock says, the words bubbling out of him all desperately and quietly, before he can stop them. His hands shake more than ever. 

 

John’s heart goes out to him. He rubs at Sherlock’s shoulders. “You’ll have me,” he soothes, his breath warm against Sherlock’s collarbone, “As soon as I'm done over there.”

 

Sherlock nods but his jaw’s all tight and wrong. He lifts a shaky hand and curves it around John’s neck, before he drops it down so that it can fumble against the material of John’s khaki coloured top. “But what if you end up going back over there after this time?” 

 

“I won’t, I promise. One tour, that’s what we said wasn't it? When I first told you? I said that this was something I felt I had to do, but that I’d only ever do it once because it wasn't fair on you,” John reassures him. 

 

“One tour,” Sherlock nods, his hand still fumbling clumsily against John’s top. It sounds like he’s struggling to digest the words. 

 

John ducks his head down and kisses him. Sherlock lets out a breath against him, before their hands tighten on one another. Suddenly they’re pushing and stumbling against each other, their lips fighting to be joined all the while as they make their way towards the bedroom. They land on the bed with a thump, John on top of Sherlock, and Sherlock ends up wriggling like an eel beneath him as John places hot open-mouthed kisses to his lover’s face and neck. 

 

John leans back and tugs his top off with a flourish. Sherlock’s fingers come up to lightly brush at the indents in John’s chest, before they hover around his bicep. But that’s all John allows him to do, before his own hands go to Sherlock’s purple shirt. Sherlock sits up to make the process easier, before he thrusts his arms out of the sleeves. The shirt falls behind him and John’s fingers reach around to pluck at it, before he tosses it on the floor. They settle back down together again, John grinding against Sherlock vigorously, whilst they kiss each other, all open-mouths and tongues. John can tell that they’re both close already, but suddenly Sherlock pulls away from him, panting hard with swollen lips. John looks at him, not understanding. 

 

 _“More,”_ Sherlock urges. John’s head ducks down, his lips parting to accommodate Sherlock’s. “No,” Sherlock breathes, “I mean”- he breaks off. His fingers glide down towards John’s trousers. 

 

John jerks his head back, “Are you sure?” Sherlock nods. John pushes a sweat soaked curl away from his lover’s face. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to, just because I'm going tomorrow I don’t”-

 

 _“More,”_ Sherlock growls, his voice low and guttural as he thrusts up into John. 

 

Both the movement and tone of Sherlock’s voice send John’s head spinning. He leans back and their erections come into further contact with each other as he does so. Sherlock lets out a sharp hiss. John eyes his lover for a moment, before he clambers off him. Sherlock lifts his head up, clearly wondering what’s going on. “I need to prepare you sweetheart,” John tells him. Sherlock lets out a frustrated groan. He bounces on the bed a little. John feels suddenly more impatient than ever. He tugs down his own trousers and underwear, grabs the lube and clambers back onto the bed, before he helps pull Sherlock’s remaining clothes off. Sherlock’s fingers grasp at the duvet a little more tightly. The breaths that leave his mouth get a little louder. “You’re beautiful sweetheart,” John tells him, and Sherlock with his pale, almost hairless body is. 

 

Sherlock shakes his head a little. He’s all tension and nerves. Suddenly, in an attempt to distract himself he looks up. “John,” he groans, “Wanna see”- he breaks off and lets out another little sound. He makes a grabbing motion with his hand when he sees how hard John is. 

 

John laughs. “All in good time sweetheart, we need to get you ready first.”

 

Sherlock slumps back down onto the bed. John begins to get him ready and Sherlock lets out a low hiss when he feels John’s fingers probing him there. Just readying Sherlock is enough to get John impatient all over again, and when the lovers finally come together, their naked bodies brush blissfully against each other’s, before John pushes inside. Sherlock tenses, before he cries out when John fills him up even more. John gasps a little at the sensation. They both shudder and writhe against each other, John coming inside Sherlock and Sherlock’s pleasure spilling out onto the bed. Neither of them has ever known anything more heavenly. 

 

*

 

What follows isn't as tranquil. 

 

John’s barely been gone two days when Sherlock decides to thrust a needle into his flesh. Mrs. Hudson-Sherlock and John’s landlady-finds him lying in a right state on the living room floor, his white shirt-sleeves rolled up to his elbows and barely conscious as he slurs his words in his attempts to get her to leave him alone. Sherlock ends up in hospital and Mycroft’s furious. 

 

He paces back and forth at the bottom of the bed in the flat you share together, his face flushed and his white shirt partly undone as you sit on the edge of the bed and watch him worriedly. 

 

 _“Myc”-_

 

“What the hell was he thinking?” Mycroft fumes. “What am I supposed to tell Mummy? _Father?”_ he stops, facing you. “What the blazes does he think John would make of it if he were to come back from Afghanistan and find out he’s dead?”

 

“But he’s not,” you say, standing up and reaching for his wrist. 

 

“He could well be though,” Mycroft snaps at you, stepping back and tugging his arm free. Your eyes go to his face. You’ve never seen his eyes so dark and angry before. He scrapes a hand over his forehead because of your uncertain expression, before he huffs out a breath and goes to sit down on the bed. You turn towards him, feeling afraid. “After all this time, when people like Moriarty have been saying they want him dead, after he’s been confronted with all manner of criminal, why would he-why would he even take the risk of having his death come from his own hand?” his voice is choked by the time he finishes. 

 

You sit down beside him at once, your hand going to his leg soothingly. He turns his head towards you. His eyes waver with tears and his lips tremble as they part. You pull him towards you instinctively and he lets out a loud sob, burying his head in your chest as you hold him close to you. His hands push against your waist, before they go to your back, whilst your fingers comb through his hair reassuringly. 

 

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” you murmur, rocking him back and forth as he shudders and cries against you. 

 

“My dear,” he sniffs when he finally pulls away from you, blinking a little to clear the fog, “What on earth would I do without you?” 

 

“Get even madder probably,” you say, smiling at him gently as you stroke the side of his face. “I’ll contact your parents for you all right? I can say there was a bit of a struggle in one of Sherlock’s cases and he accidentally ended up getting injected.”

 

“Mummy will never believe you,” Mycroft murmurs. 

 

“Well I can try,” you persist, squeezing at his hand. 

 

He leans forwards and kisses you softly. “That’s not your job,” he mutters when you pull away, his eyes somewhere off to the side of your face. 

 

“Maybe not,” you relent, “But _you’re_ my job, and I want to take care of you.” He looks at you and you brush his hair back. 

 

He kisses you again. “Okay,” he murmurs. 

 

You smile at him a little encouragingly and squeeze at his leg, before you hop off the bed. You pull your phone out of your pocket. “I’ll do it in the other room. I won’t be long,” you tell him. Mycroft nods, but he still looks so vulnerable and lost as he sits on the edge of the bed that it makes you feel reluctant to leave him. You hesitate, before you decide to go through with your plan and step inside the living room after all. The matter won’t go away until you go through with it. 

 

The phone seems to ring for the longest of times. Finally Violet answers. 

 

“Violet it’s F/N,” you say once she’s said hello. 

 

“Oh F/N, how are you dear?” she asks, sounding as enthusiastic as ever to speak to you. 

 

“Um, there was a little bit of a problem on one of Sherlock’s cases,” you begin, knowing that it’s important that you get straight to the point. 

 

“What kind of problem?” Violet asks suspiciously. 

 

“He’s in hospital”-

 

“Oh my! Is he all right?”-

 

“He was injected with some drugs, but he’s stable and he’s going to be fine. They've flushed it out of his system and”-

 

“Oh God, let me call Edwin,” she interrupts. You hear a screech of _‘Edwin!’_ a moment later. 

 

Once you've got both parents there and you’re on speaker phone you go through what you've already been through, before you leave the details of what floor Sherlock’s on. You also tell them that Mycroft and you have been to see Sherlock that evening, but that he hadn’t been conscious at that point. You leave out the part where Mycroft had stared and muttered darkly at his brother for several minutes, before he’d decided to bring your brief visit to an end. 

 

“Where is my eldest now?” Violet asks. You know that she’s really asking why Mycroft hadn’t been the one to phone her. 

 

You hesitate a moment, before you decide to be more honest with her when you tell her, “He was a little upset, naturally about what happened with Sherlock, so I thought it would be best if I phoned you myself”-you hesitate-“I think-I think he blames himself.”

 

Violet doesn’t say much and you wonder what’s going on through her mind. The phone call ends a moment later. 

 

The following evening you find yourself sitting down as you wait outside Sherlock’s private hospital room. Mycroft’s inside and you can see him walking around the bed and gesturing with his hands as he speaks to his now conscious brother. You get the feeling that whatever Sherlock’s saying in response isn't helping and you sigh. You also get the feeling that Mycroft will be in need of a massage after all of this. You get up just in time to see Sherlock as he folds his arms and turns his head away. Mycroft waves a hand and leans back, looking frustrated. His eyes go to you. You step forwards and try to give him an encouraging smile. He bites at his lip, his face softening. You can tell that he’s feeling a little bad about you witnessing him in such a frustrated state. It makes you walk into the room. Your eyes go across to Sherlock. 

 

“I hope you coming in means that you’re finally going to rescue me from my brother,” Sherlock mutters, still in the same position he was in before. “Honestly,” he huffs, “What’s the point of you if you can’t even do that?” 

 

 _“Sherlock”-_ Mycroft says, making to chastise his brother at once, but you raise a hand to stop him. 

 

“It might not please you to hear this Sherlock,” you sigh, “But I'm sure that you could actually do with taking in what Mycroft’s just said for once.”

 

Sherlock mutters something incomprehensible. 

 

“Ignore him F/N,” Mycroft says, “He’s angry with anyone who’s not John, and I think even if John were to walk in here right now then he’d still be angry.”

 

“You don’t know anything about John and I, so don’t pretend that you do Mycroft,” Sherlock says, glaring at his brother for one singular moment, before he tilts his head away again. 

 

Mycroft lets out a sigh. You feel like joining him, but instead, knowing that no good can come of you staying you go across, take Mycroft’s hand in yours and lead him out of the room. You nearly bump into Violet and Edwin who are on their way to visit Sherlock as you do so. 

 

“Oh dears, how is he?” Violet asks. 

 

“Ill-tempered and bad mannered,” Mycroft replies shortly. 

 

“Oh _Mykie,”_ Violet says, clearly thinking that he’s overreacting. 

 

“It’s okay, he’ll come around,” you say, not sure exactly which _‘he’_ you’re talking about. 

 

Violet looks at you, taking in the way that you’re standing protectively close to her son and the way that you’re gripping his hand. You get the sudden feeling, as your eyes meet, that she knows exactly what _really_ happened with Sherlock and that she knows too why you’d opted to tell her what you had. You hold her gaze steadily, despite the fact that you feel the sudden great need to swallow and look away. 

 

“You’re a good girl,” she praises, stepping forwards and straightening your coat now, before she brushes it down. 

 

Mycroft looks at her curiously, but you just nod. 

 

*

 

Sherlock’s mood and general attitude to life remains a foul one. Although he comes out of the hospital a couple of days later it’s not long before he has another brush with a needle. Mycroft’s on knife-edge about it all, and all in all, though you hate to say it, it’s a blessed relief when John gets shot in the shoulder and is flown back just a few weeks into his tour, damaged but safe, and able to bring Sherlock out of his dull spirits again. 

 

 

**October-Four Years and Nine Months since last encountering Moriarty**

 

“F/N where do you want these boxes?”

 

You frown, turning around. Mycroft and you are in the middle of moving into a slightly larger flat that’s closer to where Mycroft works and Molly and Greg have come to help. At the moment Molly’s standing by the door carrying two square cardboard boxes. Her head peeks around them. 

 

“Just over there will do,” you say, pointing to the corner of the living room area where you've just put down your own load of boxes. She nods and smiles, bringing them over. “Thanks Molly,” you tell her. 

 

The flat may be a right mess at the moment, but you’re already looking forward to sorting everything out. You can picture how everything will look: the white plush duvet on the double bed in the middle of the bedroom with its wooden floor, the soft, almost transparent bedroom curtains letting in the morning’s light, the brown leather settee, perfect for snuggling on, with its back facing the bedroom, opposite the black, ornate fireplace and the television in the left-hand corner, the photos all around, the fun times that you’ll have cooking in the kitchen area off to the side and where, on weekend mornings, you can imagine getting up and poking your head around the bedroom door to see close-up what breakfast Mycroft’s preparing. In fact as Mycroft holds you in bed that night you couldn't be any more eager to start off this new chapter of your life with him. 

 

 

**January-Five Years since last encountering Moriarty**

 

You wake up to winter sunlight trickling through the window and the feel of Mycroft’s arms slowly pulling away from you. 

 

“Mm morning,” you say, squinting a little in the light as you wriggle against him and stretch your arms. 

 

“Good morning,” he murmurs, smiling at you and rubbing a soft circle into your hip, before he twists around and stands up.

 

His naked form makes your smile grow as you remember what you’d both gotten up to the previous night. He shoots you a knowing smile over his shoulder and your lips quirk upward all the more. 

 

“If I didn't have to go to work”- he begins. 

 

“We can always have more fun later,” you reassure him, before you keep your eyes on him and watch as he gets dressed, nuzzling further into your pillow as you do so.

 

“I can see that someone’s going to spend most of this Saturday morning in bed,” he says, turning back around as he does up the buttons on his shirt. You respond by sticking your tongue out at him. “Don’t make me come over there and tickle you,” he warns. 

 

“I’d like to see you try,” you shoot back. 

 

He takes about half-a-second to hesitate, before he bounces over towards you in two graceful hops and begins his relentless assault. 

 

 _“Myc! ”_ you screech, before you thrash about and laugh as you try and prise him off. 

 

His hands breach your defences and you end up laughing until you’re hoarse. 

 

“Now do you admit that you’re going to spend most of this morning in bed?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow up at you. 

 

“All right, you win,” you relent, batting at his arm with your pillow, before you put it off to the side. He chuckles and leans down to kiss you. “Mmm,” you say as you kiss him back and run a leisurely hand across the middle of his chest, undoing the buttons that have already been done up. 

 

“Feeling mischievous today aren't we?” he smiles, looking more than satisfied by how your pupils are dilated as you stare up at him. His nose is inches from yours. You can see every freckle, every eyelash and every beautiful line that makes up his face. You let out a breath of wonder; before his lips come down to caress yours again. He pulls away, finishes dressing and goes to have breakfast. 

 

You smile, snuggle back down into bed and close your eyes. You don’t fall asleep again, but you hear Mycroft letting himself out of the flat about quarter-of-an-hour later. You let out a soft sigh and burrow further down into your pillow. 

 

You’re nearly asleep and floating in that in between stage when you hear a jangling noise, as if someone’s trying to get into the flat. You frown and your eyes widen slightly, before you blink a couple of times to try and get rid of your sleep. You raise your head off the pillow and listen. Mycroft could have forgotten something you think, not that, that’s like him, or he could have just wanted to prolong his goodbye. You smile, but when you don’t hear anything again you think that you must have been mistaken. You hear it once more. You sit up, your heartbeat pounding in your ears as you sense that it’s not Mycroft. The sound of the flat door opening comes and it makes you jump out of bed. You’re completely naked and you let out a curse of terror at the fact, before you hurry towards your clothes. But before you can find purchase on them the bedroom door, which Mycroft had left carefully ajar, is flung open. You let out a little shout of surprise and whirl instantly around. 

 

Moriarty’s standing there in between two of the trusted guards that are meant to protect you. Cold trickles through you, your stomach tightens, your heart clenches, and your mind even spins a little, whilst ragged breaths leave your mouth. Seeing him again and having those brown eyes on you makes you feel as if the cover of a beautiful painting is being ripped off to reveal the true ugliness beneath. All the laughter and the happiness of the last five years slip away, leaving nothing but you and your former best friend staring at each other as you feebly try to cover yourself up with your hands. 

 

A squeak leaves your mouth. _“No,”_ you utter. It can’t be him. Dear God it can’t be him. This is just one of your dreams, one of your nightmares. He’s not really here. You’d thought you’d woken up and had all of those nice moments with Mycroft but you hadn’t. You’re still asleep and now Moriarty’s come to ruin the nicer dream that you’d been having. 

 

Moriarty doesn’t say a word. He just pushes his gum to one side of his mouth and takes a step towards you. 

 

“No,” you cry, louder now and more insistent as you take a step back and cower, your eyes searching desperately for an escape route, part of you still trying to cling on to the fact that this must be a dream. Granted you've never had one where Moriarty’s here at the flat, but- 

 

Moriarty breaks the distance between you and grabs at your shoulders. You let out a frantic screech and push against him, trying to hit any part of him that you can with your hands. He stumbles against you and pushes you back towards the bed. You try and knee him in the groin, but he wriggles back just at the right moment. 

 

“No! No! No!” you cry, trying to halt him. This can’t be happening! This can’t be happening! Where’s Mycroft? You _need_ Mycroft! 

 

Despite all your self-defence classes with Molly you’re still no match for Moriarty’s strength. The backs of your knees hit the bed. Your hands flap against him. In a last ditch attempt to save yourself you bite down hard on his shoulder, the fabric of his black top nearly choking you as you do so. He lets out a cry of something that’s both fury and surprise, before he pushes you hard. You nearly fall onto the bed, but you manage to maintain your balance. You duck beneath Moriarty’s arm and attempt to wriggle past him so that you can make for the door, but he whirls around and tries to snatch at you. The effort of avoiding his hands has you losing your balance. You fall hard onto the floor. You hit your hip and the pain of it sends a cry of pure agony out of your mouth, whilst black dots dance in front of your vision. Your momentary hesitation allows the guards to swoop upon you and grab at your arms, before they drag you back towards the bed and Moriarty. 

 

“No! No!” you cry, wriggling and attempting to kick at them for all you’re worth.

 

They just tighten their grip on you, their fingernails digging painfully into your flesh, but-

 

“Take her out into the living room, if that’s where she wants to be so much then we can continue this in there,” Moriarty drawls. 

 

The guards swing you around. You struggle all the while, like a prisoner who doesn’t want to face execution. They try and pull you towards the door, but you drag your feet and try to pull back against them. This doesn’t deter them and they just pull you all the more firmly. Your arms burn and your vision is nearly obscured by the return of the black spots, which are the size of ants, all marching to Moriarty’s drumbeat. Your arms feel like they’re being pulled right out of their sockets. 

 

Once you’re out into the living room they throw you down hard onto the floor. You go flying, and your body slides, before it lands in a heap at the back of the settee. You let out a cry of pain, feeling winded, whilst your hip lets out another flare of protest at all the activity its being put through. You try to sit up, but you do so too quickly. Squelchy sick all stinky and wet pours out of your mouth, partly going on the floor and partly going all over you. You groan, but as you attempt to stagger to your feet the guards come over and push you back down, clearly undeterred by the vomit. 

 

Moriarty comes out of the bedroom. Two cameras-Philip and another one above the TV-cover you with their blinking red light. If Mycroft wasn’t in a meeting right in this very moment then he might have been able to witness the whole thing from the computer at his desk. Moriarty smirks at both cameras as he swaggers towards you with his hands in his pockets. 

 

“No, no, no, no,” you mutter helplessly, the tang of both sick and blood filling your mouth as you keep biting down on it every time you don’t speak. Every time that you try and pray that this isn't real. 

 

Moriarty looks at you with pity in his eyes. “Clean her,” he orders the guards, before he circles you all, “You know I like my goods fresh.”

 

You feel like you might either be sick again or faint, but as the guards wrench you to your feet all you let out is a huge breath of air. They drag you over to the shower in the en-suite as you gasp and fight for freedom with your remaining strength. Your legs are shaky from the effort of everything and your arms flare in pain at having the guards manhandle you so roughly. 

 

Once you get to the shower they push you inside the cubicle, before they block your escape route with the thickness of their fat bodies. You lean back against the wall, breathless and frightened, like a caged dog at the mercy of its angry owner. 

 

“Kneel,” comes Moriarty’s voice from behind them. 

 

You swallow and shiver. Your eyes flicker across the guards’ faces.

 

Moriarty makes his way in between them. They part, giving him enough room to walk back and forth alongside the outside of the shower cubicle if he so wishes, but not enough room for you to escape. 

 

 _“Kneel,”_ Moriarty repeats. 

 

Knowing you have no choice this time you do so, looking up at him when you’re on your hands and knees. A torrent of water gushes over you in the next moment, forcing your head back down and making you shriek and shiver as the freezing cold water transforms your hair into clumpy strands that hang down the side of your face.

 

“How does it feel F/N?” Moriarty asks, crouching down so that he’s more level with you. You look up at him, gasping from the sheer force of the water that continues to rain down upon you, hating him. He smirks. “How does it feel? Knowing, after all this time, after all the laughter and happy moments in the world, that you can’t escape me?” You let out a few breaths as you look down, before you bite at your lip, your hands curling into fists on the wet, slippery floor. “It feels good to me,” he says. You stare at your hands. Moriarty chuckles. _“Enough!”_ he commands the guards a moment later as he stands up. You flinch. 

 

The shower’s turned off and you’re dragged out back into the living room area again. No attempt is made to dry you.

 

The guards throw you back down behind the settee, in perfect view of the cameras, and the pain in your hip as you land makes you cry out. You struggle awkwardly into a sitting position, but the guards are there instantly, pushing you down by the shoulders. 

 

Moriarty does nothing more but smirk, before he sits astride you. “I gave you five years. If you haven’t done what you wanted in that time then it’s your own fault,” he hisses, his breath warm against your ear. 

 

Tears leak out of your eyes. “You said you’d never do this again”- you shiver, your teeth nearly chattering because of how cold and frightened you are. 

 

“I said that I didn't _have_ to, but since I can and its been a while, why not?” Moriarty counters. 

 

You stare at him hard, hating him, before you attempt to head butt him. 

 

He jerks back, “Don’t make me angry F/N,” he murmurs, one hand on your shoulder and the other moving to your throat as he turns his head and spits out his pink bubblegum. “You may have spent the last five years living in a fantasy land, but I haven’t. Whilst you've been shagging your little boyfriend I’ve been out there doing something worthwhile”-

 

“Nothing you could _ever_ do”- you begin, before you break off with a gasp as he whips your cheek with the back of his hand, sending your head slamming off to the side and a trickle of blood from where you've been biting down flying out of your mouth. 

 

“Keep holding her,” he breathes, clambering off you. 

 

Moriarty begins to strip and the sound of him peeling his clothes off makes you push and wriggle against the guards’ grips, but as slippery as you are with water you’re weak and even more incapable now of fleeing. That doesn’t stop them from wrenching your arms back so hard that it makes your vision go completely dark for a moment. A gasp of pain leaves your lips, before they pin them down either side of your head. All your old bruises burn. 

 

Moriarty’s back on top of you a moment later, wearing a condom. His eyes look dead, and without the smirk that slowly stretches its way across his face you might have genuinely questioned whether he’s alive. He pushes into you and takes care of his pleasure. As he does so it’s like nothing’s changed. If you were to close your eyes then you wouldn't be able to distinguish between the man who’d raped you during your first year at university and the man who’s raping you now. It makes you cry. But despite that with every thrust you pant out, “No,” until, when there’s no hope you just lie there, your teeth clamping down hard onto your lip as his brown eyes-when they’re not on the cameras mockingly-bore into yours. 

 

“If only Mycroft hadn’t had to go to work today,” he says causally once he’s finally done. He leaves you slumped on the floor. The guards trail out after him, and for an age you just lie there. Your eyes gaze at the ceiling, whilst you feel numb. The tears come and your body shudders with each gasping breath. You roll around, attempting to curl into yourself, but your toes brush against something wet and foul. You jerk back and look down. You’d nearly rolled into the sick and for some reason that just makes you cry even more. You get up and make your wobbly way over to the en-suite. You step beneath the shower and try to let the warm water wash it all away. But no matter how much water hits you and no matter how hard you scrub furiously at yourself everything that’s just happened remains. You can smell him over Mycroft. Feel the imprint of his hands all over you. See the darkness as a bruise forms on your hip. Your fingers press and prod at it, trying to cover it up or encourage it to leave, but it’s no good. A sob wrenches its way out of your mouth and you throw the bottle of liquid soap out of the shower furiously. You slide down the shower wall and bury your head between your knees. You cry for an age, the water still gushing over you. At some point you must stand up and switch the water off because the next thing you know you’re sitting down with the remaining water pooling around your feet and curling in between your toes, your head buried into your knees, whilst your phone rings. You raise your head blearily at the sound, blinking a little. For a moment you’d completely forgotten that anything else existed apart from you and the pain that you’re feeling. Your throat is dry and your body shudders violently at having the feeble warmth that it had created disturbed. Your phone rings out and silence descends once more. Slowly, and with all the elegance of a fragile newborn lamb, you get to your feet, momentarily fumbling against the shower wall as you overbalance. You step out cautiously, wrap a towel around you and go across to check whose just called. A voice mail from Molly’s waiting for you. You wrinkle your nose. It doesn’t seem to make sense that anyone can exist aside from Moriarty and you, and perhaps Mycroft. You sniff and listen to it. 

 

“Hey F/N, I'm just calling because I'm getting a little concerned,” Molly’s familiar voice says, and it’s like a warm, woollen blanket being wrapped around you. How ever could you have forgotten about Molly? “It’s quarter past two and I'm waiting in the café for you. Can you give me a call when you get this? Thanks. Bye.”

 

A little gurgle leaves your lips as soon as you finish listening to it. You’d completely forgotten that you were meant to be meeting Molly that afternoon for some tea, talk and a walk through the park if it remained dry, which, you notice as you gaze vaguely at the window, it has done. It seems like such a long time ago since you’d arranged to do such things with Molly, even though its only been two days. Such a long time in fact since you’d felt happy and carefree with Mycroft this morning. 

 

 _Mycroft._ Just the proper thought of him is enough to send you stumbling into action when you realize how much time you've already wasted. You fumble with your phone and send a quick text to Molly, apologizing and saying that you’d completely forgotten and asking her if you can re-arrange. She sends a text back a moment later, still sounding a little concerned, but saying that yes, of course you can do those things another day. You dismiss the towel that’s been clinging to your body and dress frantically, before you attempt to deal with the sick that’s on the floor the best you can. Mycroft can’t know about this, that’s what you think as you begin to tackle it. He just can’t. You’re not going to do that to him, to you, to the pair of you as a couple. You’re just not. You’re not going to let the past interfere with the future again, the _happy_ future that you’re supposed to be having. Little gasps leave your mouth. You’re not going back there. You rub at the stain of sick more vigorously. You’re not going to be that person again. Your body shudders and you throw down the cloth. Not going to be weak. The floor could probably do with being cleaned more thoroughly. Now that you’re down here you can see all the grime. In fact the whole flat would probably benefit from being cleaned. You sort out the sick-stained cloth and then you get down to work. 

 

*

 

Mycroft comes home that evening to the smell of cleaning products and disinfectant. 

 

“Someone’s been busy,” he comments approvingly, putting down his briefcase, before he looks around the flat and properly takes in the glistening, polished surfaces and the fragrant scent of lemon and jasmine that fills the air. 

 

“Yeah,” you say, offering him a small little awkward shrug and running your free hand back through your hair, whilst your other hand clutches at a book you’d been about to take to the settee with you in an attempt to distract you. Your mind’s slowly been growing heavier and getting more and more taken up with what’s happened all day. In particular its been growing more worried about seeing Mycroft, hence the erratic cleaning and now the book reading. 

 

He gives you a bit of a look. One where his brow furrows, his eyes darken a little questioningly and one of his eyebrows quirk up. You swallow. “Did you meet up with Molly?” he asks, coming over to you. 

 

You know that he senses something’s off and something tumbles inside you. “Er, no, she had to cancel, so-so I thought I’d do something useful around here instead,” you say; only half-looking at him.

 

“I see,” he says, and your stomach tightens. His hands begin to go to your waist, but anxious that one of them will press against the black bruise on your hip you guide it gently away with your book, before you turn your head when he attempts to kiss you. Puzzlement briefly fills his eyes, before his lips go to your neck instead. You let out a fluttery breath, before, momentarily distracted, you end up clutching at his waist when he knocks the book out of your hand. It clatters to the floor. His hand goes to your waist and he begins to turn you closer to him. A flare of agony jolts through you and a little whimper escapes your lips, before you step backwards. 

 

 _“F/N?”_ Mycroft asks, evidently more concerned. 

 

Your body quivers. For a moment you just stand there, your hands clasped in front of you and your head bowed as your eyes sweep across the floor crazily, whilst you try and think in the hope that you’ll be able to figure out what to do. 

 

When Mycroft sees the quick jump of your pulse at your neck it makes him feel afraid. “F/N?” he asks, more insistent. 

 

“It’s nothing,” you blurt out, looking up at him, “I just stumbled over something when I was cleaning earlier and”- he steps towards you again. His eyes are darker this time. _Harder._

 

“Show me,” he says. You know that it’s a command rather than an option. 

 

“Myc it’s nothing, it’s just a little”- you say, breaking off as you take another step away from him, before you raise your hands as his go towards you once more. 

 

“F/N show me,” he orders. 

 

You look at him for a moment. His eyes blaze with determination, whilst his hands keep a little distance from you but not much. You know he’ll try and pull your top off himself if you don’t do it willingly. 

 

“I don’t want to,” you say. 

 

“Why?” he asks, folding his arms. 

 

“Because I don’t want to be that person any more!” you yell and Mycroft starts at your sudden outburst. At seeing the shock on his face slowly transform into a dark kind of concern the tremors through your body grow even worse. You don’t look at him for a moment as tears begin to spill out of your eyes. But then you look back at him and say, “I-I don’t want you to see, to know, that after everything, after all the love and care you've given me that I'm weak, just as broken as when you first met me…” 

 

Mycroft’s throat feels tight. He knows instinctively, inside himself, what must have happened and it’s already making his head spin. But still he steps forwards all the same because he must know for sure. He bridges the gap between you. Slowly, as your body begins to shake even more and he holds his breath, he carefully lifts up your top until he can see the top of the large bruise that’s on your hip. He lets out a soft breath, too dumbstruck for words. He’d been hoping, despite your words, that it wasn't true. Not again, he thinks, _please_ not again. Something shudders inside him and you feel him vibrate against you. You bite down hard on your lip. His fingers prod carefully at the bruise for a moment, whilst his mind tries to take all this in. 

 

“Y-You see?” you tell him, your fingers going on top of his, “You see why I didn't want to tell you? This is where we have to stop running now.”

 

He swallows, withdraws his fingers, making your hand tumble off his as he does so. Then he just straightens his head and looks at you hollowly for a moment. You swallow. His eyes glisten with a new sense of determination. He tugs the top up, right over your head, before he tosses it down to the floor. You make to pick it up instinctively, but-

 

“Your arms,” he says firmly and slowly you hold them out to him. As soon as he sees the dark marks across your forearms he just traces a light finger over them for a moment. “Damn him,” he condemns. Then he draws his hand away and asks, “When did this happen?” in a more normal tone.

 

“I-this morning,” you breathe. 

 

“Once?” he asks, still in that firm tone as if he’s trying to brace himself and protect himself against something that’s already happened. You nod jerkily without looking at him. “Why didn't you tell me?” he asks angrily. Your eyes flick to him and your mouth tightens; before you wordlessly bend down to pick up your top. You do so in a rather peculiar fashion so that you won’t further hurt your side. “F/N why didn't you tell me?” he repeats.

 

“Y-You know why!” you exclaim, clutching the top to your chest but not putting it back on, “I-I just”- 

 

“No I don’t!” Mycroft blurts out, pointing a finger at thin air, “I don’t know why! I don’t know why you’d cast it off as something that just happened when you were cleaning! Why you’d try and hide it from me! Did you really think that I wouldn't find out!” he goes on, and you can tell from the way he’s breathing that he’s struggling to contain his anger. “All you've told me is that you were trying to avoid it”-

 

“Don’t act like this is all my fault!” you interrupt him angrily, “What would you have done? If everything seemed to fall apart and you were just stuck, still the same old person you were years ago and not the person you thought! Still weak! You wouldn't have wanted to tell anyone!” 

 

Mycroft shots you a dark look and then paces back and forth in front of you for a moment, his whole face tight with anger. “This isn't about me,” he growls when he finally stops in front of you, breathing heavily. 

 

“I'm sorry,” you blurt out, shaking all the more, “I'm sorry that I'm still weak, that I'm”-

 

“You’re _not_ weak”-

 

“Yes, I”-

 

“We’re not arguing about this,” he says stubbornly, his voice overriding yours. “I just wish you’d told me…” he trails off in a quieter, thoughtful tone. “After _all_ this time,” he goes on, his voice cracking as he lifts his eyes to meet yours again. “What’s the point of me putting in cameras”- he waves a hand to Philip with its steady, blinking red light-“And talking about security and trying to protect you if you don’t even contact me as soon as something goes wrong?” he sounds so desperate and disappointed in you that it makes something shrivel up into nothing inside you. “Where were the guards?” he asks suddenly. 

 

“Two of them were with Moriarty,” you say hollowly, “I don’t know what happened to the others. They held me down, whilst Moriarty”- you break off. 

 

Mycroft scrubs a hand across his face and huffs out a breath. You stare at him uncertainly. He swallows, “That’s it, we’re not talking about this any more”-your eyebrows rise and your mouth opens-“I need to phone work,” he says, sounding tired and defeated. 

 

 _“Myc?”_ you ask, taking a step towards him. 

 

He shakes his head. “Go and sit down F/N.” 

 

“Myc?”

 

“Go and sit down and put that back on, before you get a damn cold,” he says, nodding at the top that’s still in your hands.

 

You stare at him. All you want in that moment is for him to hug you, for him to tell you-even though you know that it isn't-that everything’s okay. You just want to feel those arms around you, smell that familiar scent and feel safe. But already he’s getting his phone out of his pocket and tapping at the screen. When he sees that you still haven’t moved he nods at the settee, telling you to go there. 

 

You swallow, feeling as if you’re being dismissed from your own life. Then, feeling empty inside, you slip your top on, go across and do as he wishes. 

 

As you sit down and look back at him you feel something crumble inside of you. You can’t know it then but it’s all the hopes and dreams you've ever had for your future. Mycroft doesn’t look at you. Instead he just talks to someone. His voice sounds rough, angry and commanding, more like someone you’d be scared of than the man who holds you in his arms. You feel this gap between you, even when he walks across and stands just a little bit away from you. You listen as he spouts a load of words that might as well be a foreign language to you into his phone. You watch as he doesn’t look at you. You wonder how its come to this. Wonder how its gone from Mycroft and you waking up this morning feeling so happy to your insides feeling a mess, your heart heavy and Mycroft opting to go on the phone rather than comfort you. No matter what angle you look at it, it all leads back to one person. _Moriarty._

 

As soon as Mycroft comes off the phone he turns to you and says, “Right, I’ve axed the people who need it and got a review under way”-

 

“You sacked some people?” you begin, standing up with an anxious expression upon your face. 

 

“Yes of course I did,” he says, looking at you in an exasperated fashion as if you've gone mad, whilst he shoves his phone back inside his jacket pocket. 

 

“But”-

 

“You need to go into a safe house,” he blurts out, his voice overriding yours. 

 

 _“What?”_ you exclaim, the issue of the sacked people instantly vacating your mind. 

 

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “F/N,” he says steadily, “Having cameras here didn't stop Moriarty, and since I clearly can’t trust anyone in security to keep you safe or trust you to tell me then I don’t see what choice”-

 

 _“No,”_ you gasp, and as the word shudders out of you, you find it hard to believe that you’re now using the word you’d said so much against Moriarty that day to your loving boyfriend. Mycroft opens his mouth. “No, no, I'm not going, you can’t, you can’t make me.” He steps forwards now and you push backwards into the settee, before you go around it altogether, building the distance between you. 

 

“Don’t you see what I'm trying to do here?” he asks as he hurriedly makes his way after you, his long legs breaking the distance with ease.

 

“I-I don’t”- is all you get out, before you break off with a wave of your hand as you stagger towards the bedroom. 

 

“Don’t be so childish! We need to talk about this!” Mycroft calls after you in a desperate attempt to get you to stop. 

 

It works. _“Childish?”_ you ask, as you turn back to him, “Is that what you think of me?” Mycroft stops a few steps away from you, studying you intently with his eyes, “I'm not being childish! This is my life, _my_ life that’s been ruined today and now you’re”-

 

“I'm doing it for your own good!” Mycroft explodes, “To protect you! Can’t you see that? To keep you safe! To keep you safe because I failed you before and I didn't do anything, but now I can”-

 

“You didn't fail me! I _am_ safe!” 

 

“No you’re not! You've got to stop pushing what happened today aside! You've got to see that unless you do this you’re never going to be safe again!” Mycroft half-roars, leaning towards you now and jabbing a finger towards the floor. “This is how it’s going to be, you’re going to go into a safe house and Moriarty will be searched for. He will be found, then”-

 

“And give everything up in the meantime? That’s what he wants! I'm not letting him win!”- you try and fight back frantically. 

 

“This has gone a bit beyond keeping score!” Mycroft retorts, breathing heavily. The pair of you just stare at each other for a moment, Mycroft’s eyes dark and his mouth panting for breath, whilst you eye him urgently, pleading with him not to do this to you. “You’re going,” Mycroft utters, “You’re going whether you like it or not because I will _not_ lose you now!” 

 

You look at him, feeling both disappointment and resentment towards him in that moment. You shake your head. “I'm not going,” you say stubbornly, before you turn and stride into the bedroom, half closing the door behind you. 

 

“You can stay here tonight, but first thing tomorrow you’re going,” Mycroft says in a rumbling tone after you, before he takes a moment just to exhale after you disappear. His throat feels tight as he strides to get his laptop. He might not be able to see everything that’s gone on but he’s damn well going to see as much of it as he can. He links it up to the TV, so that he can watch the footage on the biggest screen available to him and presses play. The sight of two of his own men-people who had been vetted and quadruple checked, before he’d let them go anywhere near you, people he’d _trusted_ -letting Moriarty into the flat makes a cold rage fill him. His fists clench up. He swipes the remote off the coffee table and presses pause. The image freezes on Moriarty halfway through the door, peering at everything inside, his eyes glimmering with both curiosity and delight as he does so. Mycroft shoots the man a glare, before he drops the remote back onto the coffee table with a clatter and stands up. He goes across to the drinks cabinet and pours himself a large glass of scotch. He sips at it for a moment and lets the familiar feeling of the warm liquid sliding down his throat soothe him. He closes his eyes so that he can focus on it all the better. He shifts back across to the settee and gingerly sits down on it. Inhales. Exhales. Swaps the glass in his hand for the remote. Presses play. Settles the remote back down onto the table. Picks up the glass and holds it tightly in between both hands as soon as he sees Moriarty stepping further inside and as he begins to invade his personal space. He watches as Moriarty disappears out of sight-followed closely by the guards-and heads into the bedroom. He curses. He should have just put a damn camera there anyway. With or without your permission. His body is taut and tight, whilst his jaw swishes from side to side in his agitation. His fingers shift against the glass as he waits to see what will happen next. There’s a few minutes gap and then finally there’s movement. The guards forcibly drag you through to the living room. You’re naked, and the sight of you so vulnerable as you struggle helplessly against them makes Mycroft feel even guiltier. “I should have been there,” he murmurs, before a hiss of breath escapes him when he sees how the guards throw you down onto the floor. You land hard and when you’re sick Mycroft pulls a face, before he watches as the guards go and push you down. Moriarty leaves the bedroom. Mycroft squeezes the glass so hard that it’s at risk from breaking. It nearly bends in his grip when he sees how Moriarty mockingly looks at the cameras. He realizes then that, that’s the man’s way of telling him that he can’t win by trying to use his own methods against him, that he’ll simply throw it all back in his face. A sound of irritation leaves him when he sees how the guards pull you up again and drag you out of sight. He wonders if the rape took place in the bedroom, on the bed that he’d made love to you on the previous night, but then you’re back again, naked and shivering and wet and Mycroft feels horror stricken at the sight of you. He watches as again on the floor you share a conversation with Moriarty, and when Moriarty hits you a growl, low and fierce, leaves his mouth. He slams the glass back down on the table and stands up. He sits back down as Moriarty undresses and then he finds himself feeling helpless and sick as he watches how Moriarty smothers you with his body. He picks up the glass again. His breaths tremble and he sips frequently at the liquid that’s left in his glass as he watches the light leave your eyes. To have you tell him the little that you have about Moriarty raping you over the years was one thing. But then, to see it taking place so boldly and vividly in front of him and with that bastard looking at the cameras to boot, to know that he’d once promised that you’d never have to go through it again, to know that he’s let you down, is worse than he could ever have imagined. By the time Moriarty’s finally pulling away from you Mycroft’s glass of scotch is on the coffee table and he’s letting out gasping breaths against his hands, his eyes full of ghosts as they shine with tears. This morning he’d woken up so happy, he’d felt like nothing could go wrong. But now all he can do is watch the evidence of his life crumbling apart over and over again, regretting not only the fact that he hadn’t been there for you as he does so, but how he’d spoken to you so angrily and coldly when he’d found out. He’d been scared, Christ he’s _still_ scared, but that’s no excuse. _Life_ making him colder is no excuse. He wonders what you think of him, wonders if he should go and see you, try and make amends, but he doesn’t know where to begin or what to say. In the end he just sits there, torturing himself with the images over and over again as he thinks the same thoughts and wonders if he’s made the right choice following tonight’s discovery. 

 

*

 

You don’t remember falling asleep. All you remember is being curled up in a ball on the bed, whilst you thought about it all and felt afraid of Mycroft’s suggestion and wondered what Mycroft was doing. When you wake you are still curled up in a ball, albeit a slightly looser one and Mycroft is still absent. Something, which you find out about by swiping a hand across the other side of the bed. It’s cold and smooth, as if Mycroft’s never even come to bed at all. You release a bit of a breath, before you shuffle upwards into a sitting position. A slither of light shines underneath the door. You switch on the bedside lamp. The warm orange glow it casts reveals a room that’s devoid of all human life aside from you. You swallow, swing out of bed and pad towards the door. You hesitate a moment, before you go through it, feeling tentative about what you’ll find. 

 

The living room is mostly dark. The only light comes from the television, which is frozen on Moriarty’s naked form over yours. You let out a breath as you realize what Mycroft’s been doing all this time. Now he sits on the settee, his head buried into his hands. A slither of light shines across his shoulders. A half-drunk bottle of scotch sits on the coffee table next to a glass that has only a minute amount of the amber liquid left inside it. Something jerks inside your stomach. You should have known that he’d been doing this, known that he’d be torturing himself. You should have had a little break from each other because you were both angry you know, but then you should have gone back and stayed with him, made sure that he wouldn't watch it enough times to have the images emblazoned in his mind as they now surely are. You swallow and take a step forwards. 

 

“Myc, come to bed,” you murmur. 

 

He starts and looks over his shoulder at you quickly, before he turns back and hurriedly switches the footage off. The television screen goes back to static. The light serves as your only illumination. 

 

“I can’t,” he says, and his voice sounds so hoarse and broken that it makes something go right through you. 

 

You swallow, before you move carefully to sit beside him and put your hand over his. “Yes you can,” you tell him, “What’s the point of torturing yourself like this?”

 

He turns to you, pulling his hand away as he does so. “I was supposed to be there, for _you,_ whenever you needed me, and now”- he breaks off. 

 

You cup his cheek with your hand. He blinks. His eyes are all desperate and shiny with tears whenever you get a look at them. “You’re here for me now, that’s what matters. Come to bed, please,” you urge. 

 

He hesitates, lets out a little breath and then slowly nods. The curve of his cheek jostles against your hand as he does so. 

 

Feeling relieved you let go of him, before you switch the TV off altogether and make your way to the bedroom. 

 

He casts one last look around at the dark, before he follows you. 

 

You slip underneath the covers, whilst he undresses in the light of the bedside lamp. He joins you a moment later, wearing only his black boxer shorts. You roll on your side to face him. He’s on his back, his eyes scanning the ceiling. You can see that he’s already slipped back into thought, and before he can descend into his head any further you open your mouth. 

 

“You have to go to the safe house,” he says, getting there before you as he turns his head towards you. 

 

 _“Why?”_ you ask, feeling upset. 

 

“You _know_ why,” he says, sounding a little frustrated. “So I can take care of you, make sure you’re”-

 

“There’s got to be another option”-

 

“There isn't,” he insists. You huff out a breath and he runs a hand back through his hair. “All night I’ve been thinking, but”-

 

“You can’t make me. Moriarty probably won’t come back here now anyway”-

 

“That’s not the point. I can’t trust that you’ll be safe here any more”-

 

“So you just expect me to give up my job? My freedom?” 

 

“Yes, _yes_ if it will keep you safe!” Mycroft interrupts, his voice overriding yours, and he’s clearly starting to get hysterical. “God, why do you still have to be so”- 

 

“Don’t I get a say in any of this?” you snap, sitting up.

 

“Don’t you _want_ to be safe?” Mycroft huffs, sitting up too. You stare at each other for a moment, both panting a little due to your respective angers. He looks away for a moment and tangles his fingers through his hair. “A safe house wouldn't be so bad,” he breathes. You look at him disbelievingly. “Yes it would mean you putting your career on hold right now, but you’d be free to roam about the house as you’d wish and I’d try to be with you as much as I could. It would just be like living here only different.” You raise a sceptical eyebrow at him. He sighs. He can tell that he’s not doing a very good job at persuading you. “Please,” he says, looking at you imploringly, “Please just do it for now, do it for me.”

 

You don’t answer. You just turn your back on him, switch off the bedside lamp and slip back down. 

 

Mycroft’s sigh radiates around the room. 

 

*

 

When you wake that morning you feel groggy and tired. You’d spent most of the night thinking and worrying about the future. Not to mention trying to ignore Mycroft who’d been tossing and turning relentlessly behind you as he got lost in his mind. 

 

When you turn around he’s not there. You sit up and scrub at your eyes for a moment, before, wanting to avoid everything for just a little bit longer you slip back down into bed. 

 

You hear the soft padding of footsteps and nestle down even further into the duvet. 

 

“F/N?” comes Mycroft’s questioning voice. You make an apprehensive sound of acknowledgement. “The car’s going to be here to pick you up in a little while.” You don’t say anything. You hear Mycroft step forwards. “Maybe you could get dressed?” he implores. Again you don’t say anything. He lets out a sigh and comes forwards. You shift a little as he sits down beside you on the bed. His weight holds the duvet down. He brushes a hand against your hair. You nuzzle your hand against your arm. 

 

“Please, please don’t do this,” you plead. 

 

“It won’t be that bad my dear, I promise. You can get settled in today and I’ll be with you tonight.” His thumb swipes against your hair. You don’t say anything in response. He shifts closer to you. “I’ve even packed some of your things for you so that you won’t have to do that,” he says encouragingly. Finally, resigned to your fate, you swing upwards into a sitting position. He kisses you on the forehead and then gives you some space to get dressed. 

 

The car’s there all too soon, and you've done nothing but get dressed and step into the living room when Mycroft’s getting a text to tell him such a thing. You look at his phone and then around. “I’ve packed some of your books,” Mycroft assures you, sliding his phone back into his pocket, “The ones you like best”-

 

You nod distractedly. “Where’s my phone?” you ask. Mycroft suddenly looks very tense. _“What?”_

 

“I”- he shifts his position. “I'm sorry but I had to take it, you can’t have”-

 

“What? What do you mean?” you ask, getting more frantic as you step towards him. 

 

He raises his hands placatingly. “The point is, if he tries to contact you then it will, most likely, be through your phone”-

 

“But”-

 

“I can’t have that. There’s no point in putting you somewhere if he can still get to you”-

 

“So what am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to contact people?” you ask him a little incredulously. There’s a prominent silence and Mycroft doesn’t look at you. “I'm not am I?” you exclaim.

 

He looks at you, looking both desperate and frustrated. “When it comes down to it you've already shown that you’re capable of keeping his messages from me”-

 

“If you’re talking about our third-year at university”- he nods-“You can’t use that against me! You _wanted_ me to keep that from you!”-

 

“That’s besides the point”-

 

“Stuff the point!” you exclaim, staring angrily at him for a moment, before you go across to where he’s left your two packed bags by the settee.

 

_“F/N”-_

 

“No,” you huff out as you pick the bags up. You turn to him. Your eyes lock. “You've gone too far now, we just need to take a step back from all this and try and think about it”-

 

Mycroft makes an annoyed sound in his throat. “There is no time to think,” he huffs, “Don’t you see? We can’t waste a single moment now that he’s acted”-

 

“Locking me up’s not the answer,” you say, dropping your bags onto the floor, “Moriarty will still be out there, he’ll still be watching, and if he knows where I am then”-

 

“He won’t be able to get to you,” Mycroft breathes, “Measures have been put into place”-

 

“But I don’t see why we can’t just hang back on this a little, it only happened yesterday…” you trail off momentarily, before you wave your hands and add, “Can’t we just try and carry on with our”-

 

“No! No, don’t you see? He’s mocking me!” Mycroft begins to pace now, “He’s mocking every aspect of my life and challenging me to still try and keep you safe, I will not”-

 

“I thought this wasn't about keeping score,” you interrupt. 

 

Mycroft stops and faces you with a scowl. “This is about keeping you safe! How many times do I have to tell you?” You swallow, but the look on your face is still rebellious. “For God’s sake F/N,” Mycroft breathes, “What am I supposed to do? Ignore this like you want me to and wait until something even worse than yesterday happens? Wait for you to die?”

 

You let out a soft breath and pick up your bags. Then, as something spiteful comes over you, you say, “I’d rather die than go to a safe house,” as you shuffle past him towards the door. 

 

Mycroft lets out a choking sound. “Then you’re mad,” he says with amazement, as he turns to look at you, “Mad if you’d rather die than go through a tiny bit of suffering, before you’ll be free forever.”

 

You turn and give him a look as if to say that you very much doubt you’ll ever be free forever. Then you turn and walk out the door. 

 

*

 

It drizzles the whole way. The rain slides down the car window like tears. You sit with the side of your head nearly completely pressed against it. You wish that the sun was out or that at the very least the sky was less dull. Wish that you could see every building, every patch of greenery and every single person that the black car passes by with the utmost clarity. But you can’t. Everything’s blurred. 

 

The drive across London is a long one. You try to remember the exact way, so that you might be able to-in your mind at least-trace the way back to the flat. But everything becomes tangled and uncertain. You feel like you’re stuck in a puzzle book and waiting for someone to draw a line along the right path and show you the way. Only on this occasion no one comes to draw anything and you’re just left stuck in your own confusion. 

 

The building you finally reach on the outskirts of London is a large, redbrick one, trapped behind an imposing black gate and led up to by a long gravel driveway. It’s not unpretty to look at, but with your thoughts the way they are at the moment it feels more like a prison than anywhere you want to admire. 

 

The car curves around the crumbling disused fountain that lies in the centre and comes to a slow stop. 

 

You swallow and drag your head reluctantly away from the window, but you don’t make to do anything more than that.

 

“Miss?” the driver-a chunky, balding man with dark brown hair and small, brown eyes-questions, looking over his shoulder at you. 

 

You clear your throat and nod, before your fingers instinctively make to fumble the door open. 

 

A gust of cool air hits you, making you shiver. 

 

You push yourself out of the car as if you’re jumping off a diving board. Then you run your hands down over your clothes-black top, black jeans and a black scarf and coat-uncertainly, before you make your way towards the back of the car. 

 

In the time you've been dawdling the driver has already started to pull your bags out. You thank him, before you take one and slowly make your way towards the building. 

 

“It was an old school once, back in Victorian days,” the driver informs you, looking back at you as he carries one of your bags and breathes rather heavily. 

 

“Oh,” you respond, not exactly interested or disinterested, but somewhere in between. 

 

The driver clearly senses that you’re not exactly in the right mood to concentrate on the history of the rather grand but crumbling building in front of you, for he wipes his free hand across his red, sweaty face, before he carries on more gruffly, “Mr. Holmes has got a small team together inside. Lads and lasses who will wait hand and foot on you and try to make your stay a comfortable one.”

 

You wonder exactly when Mycroft had, had the chance to get all that arranged. You think that he’d probably gotten up early this morning to do so. You also wonder how he’d managed to distinguish who could be trusted with you when yesterday’s guards had failed. “You’ll be safe here,” the driver reassures you as if he’s read your mind. He lifts his knee up so that he can use it to push the bag more securely into his hand. 

 

You nod, but as you both draw to a stop by the slightly weathered black door you can’t help but look over your shoulder and take a long look at the road, which already seems so far away in the distance. 

 

The driver catches what you’re doing and smiles a little sympathetically at you, before he knocks on the door. 

 

It takes about thirty seconds, before none other than the woman you’d once known as a receptionist called Jane answers it. 

 

Your body stiffens at once and your legs come together as if you’re a soldier on parade. 

 

“F/N,” the woman Mycroft now knows as Anthea says with a cool pleasantness. 

 

You frown, before the driver and you follow her inside the hallway when she steps back to admit you. 

 

The hallway is as dull and drab as the sky outside. The only light, which filters down to it comes from a glass window that’s at the top of the dark wooden stairs. A maroon and dusty looking stair carpet lies over their centre. 

 

“Mycroft never told me you’d be here,” you tell Anthea icily, your eyes piercing hers, whilst you wipe your feet robotically on the frayed brown welcoming mat. 

 

“I'm not surprised, considering the way you’re looking at me,” Anthea replies just as frostily, before she averts her gaze.

 

You frown, before you drop your bag on the grimy floor and shove your hands in the pockets of your dark jacket. 

 

“If it changes anything then I think he made me come for your benefit. He knew that nothing would happen to you under my watch”-

 

“He could have just come himself,” you interrupt, “That way he could have been sure.”

 

Anthea makes a soft tutting noise. “He’s a very busy man,” she says, as if you have no idea. 

 

 _“Yeah?_ Well now I'm here safe you have my full permission to leave,” you remark, before you pick up your bag and swing around to take the other one from the driver, who you give a bit of a terse nod to. Then, going as gracefully as you can, which isn't very as your bags keep hitting your legs, you make your way upstairs. 

 

You have no way of knowing if there’s a dedicated room meant for you, but you move instinctively towards the first bedroom on the right. You shoulder the door open. Then, breathing more heavily, you drop your bags by the foot of the white, lumpy looking double bed that’s in the centre of the room. 

 

As you straighten up your head spins a little so you take a moment to just stand still and blink, before you look around. The slightest trace of curiosity crosses your face as you do so. 

 

The room-to match the rest of the house you suppose-is poorly lit. Gloomy light filters in through a window that needs cleaning and which overlooks the driveway. The carpet-a colour that might have once been cream but is now more a dirty brown-feels hard and unwelcoming beneath you, as if it’s rejecting your shoes with every movement. The furniture in the room is sparse. The bed only accompanied by a rather wonky looking wardrobe, drawer, bedside table and lamp. The white walls, cracked and chipped, seem to close in on you. You swallow and pull one of your bags onto the bed. Your stomach lets out a low growl and you’re suddenly reminded of the fact that you haven’t had breakfast. You frown. You have absolutely no desire of going downstairs. You pull the dark bag that’s on the bed closer towards you and begin to tug the zip back. The first thing you see is the photo that Violet had taken of Mycroft and you on that Christmas Day so long ago. There have been other photos since then of course, but this one, still nestled in its original frame has remained your favourite. You like it because you can see the hope in both of your eyes, though now, when it seems like there’s little hope around you find that it makes you feel sad too. You put it tentatively upon the bedside table in front of the lamp. You can almost feel Mycroft standing behind you, feel the slight press of his hand on your back and hear him whispering encouragingly into your ear, ‘There, not so bad. It’s looking a lot more like home already.’ A prickle of irritation runs through you. You’re not in the mood to give up your anger just yet. “I don’t know what you’re smiling at,” you tell photo Mycroft a little crossly despite the fact that he’s got his head turned towards photo you.

 

You go back to rummaging in your bag. As if he’s done it just to make you feel guilty about being angry with him Mycroft’s packed everything that he knows is precious to you along with what you actually need. There’s the blue handkerchief with Mycroft’s initials in gold, the journal, the dark blue and white butterfly necklace that Molly gave you, the yellow photo album that’s full to the brim of happy memories and Mycroft’s grey coat. As you stare at them all layed out on the bed you’re taken back to Brighton when you’d made a small shrine in honour of your friends. You have more objects now than you did then, and far happier memories too, but, like you did then, it seems only fitting to create a special space for them. You look around and think about it for a moment, considering the best place. You want to put them out somewhere you can see them, where they might bring some light into your life since the actual sun doesn’t seem capable of doing so. But there’s hardly anywhere to do so. You look back to the bed a little helplessly. Instinctively you draw Mycroft’s coat up and bend your head so that you can smell it. It hasn't smelt of him in years but you slip it on and wrap it around you anyway, taking comfort from it like you always have. Then, whilst you wear it still, you begin to move all the other precious things across to the dresser. As you arrange them into a weird square you feel rather like a witch, as if, if you manage to get the combination right you might be able to summon enough energy to leave this place. You close your eyes and lightly grip onto the edge of the wooden dresser with your fingers. You open your eyes. Nope. You’re still here, still here in this wretched place. You let out a sigh. Then you turn around and go and sort the clothes and books that Mycroft’s packed for you. 

 

*

 

Mycroft’s tried to feel hopeful ever since you left him that morning. Hopeful about you being all right, settled in and actually rather comfortable. 

 

But now, as he stands in the entranceway of your room, leaning against the doorway and looking at your still form as you lie on the bed with your back to him and with his mind fresh with the words that he’s just heard he feels heavy and troubled once more. 

 

Finally he decides to announce his presence, walking in with the soft yet disappointed remark of, “Why am I getting reports that tell me despite everyone’s best efforts you haven’t eaten today?” 

 

You roll around, before you scramble upwards into a sitting position. Your eyes are red-rimmed. It’s obvious that you've been crying and the truth of it makes Mycroft’s stomach clench. You've got a frown on your face as you stare at him. 

 

He stops a little away from the bed so that he’s facing you diagonally with his arms crossed. He raises his eyebrows. 

 

You look away and shift your position. 

 

“Come,” he murmurs, stretching a hand out towards you. You look at him. “As it happens I’ve eaten precious little myself. I hear a meal has been laid out for us in the kitchen. We would do well not to waste it.”

 

You slide to the edge of the bed and Mycroft thinks he’s been successful but-

 

“The others?” you question. 

 

Mycroft frowns a little. He knows full well that you’re asking about Anthea. “I have dismissed them for the day.” You look relieved. “There are guards around the perimeter of the house”-your face falls-“And two on standby in the living room should either of us need them. But I think you’ll find that they shan't disturb us.” That’s of scant comfort to you, but you find yourself reaching out to grip his hand nonetheless. He pulls you into a standing position and as your bodies come to collide against each other’s his lips nip at yours. You’re obliging, but only to a point-when his tongue attempts to prise your lips open you pull back, keeping your head lowered as you clear your throat a little. Mycroft lets out a bit of a sigh and studies you for a moment. Then, clearly deciding that you’re not fit for any more conversation and hoping that you’ll feel better with a bit of food inside you, he tugs you gently downstairs. 

 

You feel a little lighter just from leaving the room and seeing a new part of the house, even though the kitchen is small and as uninteresting as the rest. You also feel better comforted from the initial few mouthfuls of pasta you get down. But then when your needs are better taken care of you become gloomy again as the reality of the situation hits you. You let out a sigh that has Mycroft’s eyes looking up at you from his food immediately. You ignore his gaze and pick morosely at the rest of your food.

 

“F/N?” he asks, reaching for your hand. 

 

You draw back, rejecting both him and the food. He looks instantly hurt. “I think that’s all I can manage,” you say once you’re on your feet. Then, without another word to him you leave the room and go back upstairs. 

 

Mycroft sighs and tangles a hand through his already thinning hair, before he abandons the rest of his dinner too. 

 

He reaches the bottom of the staircase at the same time as one of the guards-who’s no doubt on his way to try and find a toilet-does. They eye each other for the briefest of moments. The guard’s hand trails back from where it had been clutching the banister. 

 

“Sir,” the guard acknowledges with a nod of his head. 

 

“Why did you leave your post?” Mycroft asks him coldly. 

 

“I er, have to take care of”- the guard breaks off, shifting his position and gesturing awkwardly to his nether-regions. 

 

Mycroft is far from amused. He draws himself up to his fullest height, before he informs the guard coolly, “From now on you will not leave your post and you can get a message out to the others to tell them to do the same. I will not have this whole – _operation_ -going awry just because of someone’s weak bladder”-

 

 _“Sir”-_

 

“Is that clear?” Mycroft’s voice overrides that of the protesting guard’s. 

 

The guard hesitates for the briefest of fractions, before he nods his head. 

 

“Good,” Mycroft breathes, before he sends the beleaguered guard back to the living room with a wave of his hand. He watches him go for a moment and then he begins the ascent upstairs. 

 

You’re in bed, in your white nightgown this time, but again with your back turned towards him. 

 

Mycroft lets out a little sigh to announce his presence. Then he undresses, before he joins you in bed wearing his boxer shorts. 

 

He looks at you for a moment, not quite sure what to do. You shift your position, but other than doing that you don’t acknowledge his new presence behind you at all. He swallows and wriggles closer to you. His knees brush against your lower back rather clumsily, before he attempts to slide his hands around your waist. You move and push his hands away. He clears his throat. “Still, the house is rather beautiful isn't it?” he asks, as if you hadn’t just pushed his hands away and as if he’s not, right at that moment, drawing them back from you. You don’t say a word, but not discouraged Mycroft goes on, “I know it’s not exactly”- he fumbles for the word-“Lived in, but its got a certain charm hasn't it? A”-

 

“If you say ‘je ne sais quoi’ then I'm not going to talk to you for the rest of the night,” you grumble, smiling in spite of yourself. But as you roll around to face him your face falls once more and you say, “I feel like a Victorian housewife without the husband and with a bunch of servants that I don’t even want.”

 

Mycroft grimaces, before he pulls another face when he attempts to brush your hair back from your face and again you draw away from him. “It won’t be forever, and like I said I’ll try and be with you as much as I can”-

 

“When you say ‘as much as you can?’”- you comment with narrow, suspicious eyes. 

 

Mycroft swallows, before he hurriedly confesses, “Well, it wouldn't be practical for me to come here every night. It rather defeats the object of trying to keep you safe if I myself make your whereabouts that obvious, and I'm loathe to”-

 

You huff out a breath. His words feel like another blow to you. Mycroft tries to resume what he’d been saying, but, “No,” you get out as you both sit up and face each other. Again Mycroft attempts to open his mouth and speak. “How would you like it if I told you one day that you had to give up your job and everything that you've been working towards? If I told you that you couldn't contact anyone? If I made you come to this old, freezing house that you can’t even properly see outside of because the windows are filthy?”-

 

“I can get someone to clean the windows”- Mycroft begins, grasping at your hand and looking rather scared at the way you’re glaring at him as you breathe heavily, “I can even clean them myself if you”-

 

“I don’t care about the windows!” you snap, your voice sounding both loud and sharp in the quiet of the house. You swallow and take a breath. “For the record, just so that we’re clear, you’d hate it,” you blurt out.

 

“Maybe I would,” Mycroft says, taking his hand away and feeling upset at how childish you’re being, “But I’d know”-

 

“Then you’d hate it even more if I told you that I’d barely be coming around to see you either!” you interrupt him with a flourish. 

 

“I”- Mycroft gets out, though his face is undeniably softer as he suddenly realizes what this new surge of anger from you is being properly fuelled by. 

 

“When is it all going to end? That’s what I want to know,” you tell him, on the verge of tears and he pulls you close to him. “When is it all going to end?” you ask into his shoulder. “When are we going to stop letting Moriarty win and be able to carry on with our lives?”

 

“Soon,” Mycroft tells you, brushing at your hair reassuringly with his large hand. “And,” he goes on, “For the record we’re not letting him win.”

 

“Sometimes it feels like we are,” is all you manage to get out in a gurgle, before, as tears begin to leak out of your closed eyes you bury your head into his shoulder. 

 

“Shh,” Mycroft says, shifting his position and cradling you to him, “Shh, shh.”

 

You cry, your body trembling against him. 

 

“I'm just so fed up of this,” you say when you finally pull back from him, and Mycroft’s hands shift against your hair, before they go to cradle your cheeks. You’re eyes are shiny with tears and your lips are all dry and cracked. It makes his heart ache to see you that way. “Of thinking that things are going to get better, of thinking that they actually are and then”- you break off. 

 

“I know, I know,” Mycroft murmurs soothingly, holding you close to him again and rubbing at your back. “It won’t be for much more. Just hold on for a little bit longer, okay?” he asks, holding you back from him. 

 

You nod, but even when he-seeing how you’re struggling to let out more than a gurgle-pulls you close to him again, you’re not sure just how much longer you can take of this. Of being built up only to be torn down again. You've been doing it for years and now you’re stuck here on top of everything… 

 

“I know it’s difficult. The first night here was always going to be hard,” Mycroft says, “But it’ll only be for a little while longer. Then we can go back to the flat and”-

 

 _“And?”_ you push, blinking a little as you pull your head back from him. For despite how much you know it’s silly to risk what you've just thought you've had enough of happening again, you could really do with something to look forward to. 

 

He half-stares at you for a moment, and you feel something strange happen inside you, as if your very life depends on his answer. 

 

His eyes flicker with something. He lets out a bit of a breath; before he says with a tight smile, “Create more happy memories.”

 

You can’t help but feel disappointed, like a boat that’s just been released from its moorings and which is now drifting out to sea, lost. 

 

*

 

You’re sitting on the bed in the house, dressed simply in your white nightgown, which threatens but doesn’t quite reach your knees. Your fingers are curled around the edge of the bed and your head is bowed, whilst you think. 

 

The sound of soft footsteps reaches your ears, but you don’t look up until two polished dark shoes enter your vision. 

 

Moriarty’s standing there, looking smart in a dark suit and with his hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers. When your eyes meet his soft, brown ones linger on you for a moment, before he says, “Move.”

 

You don’t feel afraid, just rather defeated and you do what he wants willingly. 

 

You both shift around until you’re lying with your head at the bottom of the bed and he’s doing so with his head resting on the pillow that Mycroft would use. For a moment it’s like everything that’s happened hasn't and as if you’re still best friends. You close your eyes for a moment and just take the calm silence in. But as soon as you open them you’re reminded of everything that’s happened. It settles on you, a weight that feels as thick and uncomfortable as a plaster cast, but with none of the benefits. 

 

“Why did you have to do this to us?” you huff out. “Why couldn't you have just left me alone?” 

 

You hear the rustling of his clothes as he sits up and you do the same. “I guess we can’t even lie here,” he says, looking a little regretful as he chews his gum. You shake your head and push your hair back behind your ear. Moriarty lets out a bit of a sigh. “You know that there’s only one way Mycroft will let you out of here don’t you?” he asks.

 

You swallow, not saying anything for a moment. “Yes,” you nod, for you've been trying to avoid it all day, but clearly you can’t now. Your fingers shift slightly against the material of the duvet. You look down and watch their progress. You look back up at him and say, “You deserve to die, there’s no doubt about that. I don’t want you near me, Mycroft or any of my friends. I don’t want you to hurt any one any more”-

 

“But you don’t want me to be captured?” Moriarty realizes

 

You frown and clench your fists, “If any one deserves to be captured it’s you James,” you get out roughly. 

 

A sudden understanding, which you hate flickers about his face. _“Ah,”_ he says, “You’re worried about what your little boyfriend might do”-

 

“He’s falling apart,” you blurt out, and even though you want to stop speaking, even though you don’t want to be telling Moriarty all of this, it’s like you can’t prevent yourself. “He’s so desperate to keep me safe, so _haunted_ because of what went on before, by the failure he thinks he committed, that it’s like he can’t think straight”-

 

Moriarty lets out a chuckle. You look at him. “Oh, he might be a bit flustered all right,” Moriarty concurs, “But he can think straight enough.” Something about his tone makes you shiver. “Let me tell you this: the little boy standing by the bike, he’s trying to hunt me down and he’s not going to stop until I'm dead,” Moriarty says with a slow drawl and your face pales. He lets out a little laugh that’s full of irony. “All of Mycroft’s men, and all of his horses, they’re trying to hunt me down to put you together again.” 

 

“He wouldn't kill you,” you finally manage to get out, for despite your earlier fears you can’t help but think that Mycroft wouldn't go that far. 

 

“You don’t sound entirely sure,” Moriarty teases. You bite down hard on your lip. “You’re probably right though,” Moriarty says, as he pretends to be examining his fingernails. You let out a breath of momentary relief. Moriarty looks back up at you, smirks. “As in, he wouldn't do it _himself._ He’d probably get one of his men to do it. You see, when it comes down to it F/N honey, we’re not that different after all.” You swallow, your mind going back to when Moriarty and Moran had said that they’d got someone else to kill Magnussen. “There’s a problem in all of this though, have you figured it out?” You hesitate, before you shake your head. Moriarty lets out an exasperated sigh, _“Urgh,”_ he groans, “It’s no wonder I’ve had to have a bit of fun with Sherlock in the past. _You’re_ not exactly the brightest of sparks are you?” You swallow. “The problem, F/N honey, is that I don’t want him to find me, not yet”- 

 

“He’d just talk to you, I'm sure he’d just talk,” you interrupt him, growing more frantic because unless Moriarty gets captured then you’re just going to be stuck here. 

 

Moriarty laughs mockingly. “With that attitude you’ll be here for the rest of your life you know.” You swallow. “Your wings clipped for all of eternity just so precious Mycroft can keep you safe and come to admire you from time to time. You’ll be like a stuffed bird in a glass cabinet”-

 

“Shut up,” you say, scrunching your eyes shut and raising your hands to rest either side of your head. “Shut up.”

 

“You know it’s true F/N,” Moriarty says as the image of him and the entire dream starts to fade from your mind, “You’ll be stuck here forever if you leave it up to him. The question now is, now that things have gotten this far, now that Mycroft’s sunk this far into this world you’d rather he hadn’t, how far are you willing to go to try and stop him from going that much further? How willing are you to save what’s left of Mycroft’s soul? To stop his descent into being complicit with murder? All this time he’s done so much for you hasn't he? But just how far are you willing to go for him?”

 

“I’d die,” you say as you come out of the dream, before you gasp at what you've just said. It’s still dark. You wonder how long it is until morning. You’re just thinking of rolling around and switching the lamp on so that you can check when you hear a sharp breath leave a mouth that doesn’t belong to you. You start. It’s followed by a shuddery groan and you blink, trying to adjust to the dark. Mycroft’s in front of you, the noise seems to be coming from him. 

 

“F/N?” you hear him mutter and something tightens inside you. Has he heard your words? Is he going to try and make you explain them? 

 

“Yes?” you finally ask him tentatively, all your nerves on edge and your voice slightly higher than normal. No answer. You swallow, before you sit up and reach across. Your hand finally finds purchase on the switch for the lamp and you flick it on. Your eyes go back to Mycroft automatically. 

 

He’s on his side, his face all scrunched up and his eyelids flickering with something dark. His mouth alternates between being shut in a tight frown and releasing spurts of breath. “F/N,” he breathes again, as if a spirit is possessing him. _“F/N,”_ he says, his voice lower and more desperate this time. His bent leg jerks upwards, catching against the side of yours. “F/N _please…”_ he groans. You realize as you continue to watch him and the glistening sheen of sweat that’s on his forehead that he’s having a nightmare. 

 

 _“Myc?”_ you murmur as you settle back down on your side, face him and continue to watch. You feel afraid. Something more fervent flickers beneath his eyelids, before he releases a whoosh of breath. His hair is plastered down close to his skull, glistening with sweat. You’re worried about touching him or getting too close just in case he should choose to lash out, but as you hear his breath beginning to catch in his chest and see the jerky movements that his body starts to make you can’t help but want to comfort him. You shuffle forwards. Tentatively you reach out a hand so that you can brush at the side of his face, “It’s okay,” you soothe, trying to keep your voice even. “It’s okay.” 

 

He lets out an incomprehensible murmur of something, before he draws his head up and down like a horse that’s being irritated by a particularly bothersome fly. 

 

You withdraw your hand, before you place it just beneath his shoulder instead. You rub at the skin there. “Myc please,” you say, starting to feel more upset, “You have to wake up.” You rub more vigorously at his skin. 

 

He utters something else that’s unintelligible, before he jerks forwards. You let out a gasp of surprise as his eyes fly open. His arms curl around you in the next moment. His hands tighten on your back. “Is it really you?” he asks in a gravelly voice, his head close to your shoulder and his warm breath hitting your ear. His heart pounds against your own chest. 

 

“Y-Yes,” you get out shakily, and that’s all it takes for another whoosh of breath to leave his mouth. You feel dampness against your shoulder and you feel astonished. “It’s okay,” you murmur in a trembling breath as he begins to shake against you. Your hands adjust on his back so that you’re holding him more securely to you. “It’s okay.”

 

“No, no it’s not, I dreamt you were dead,” he blurts out in a strangled voice, as he nuzzles your hair and spit clings to his lips. 

 

A wave of helplessness pounds into you and for the first time you truly come to appreciate what you've put him through with your own nightmares. 

 

In the end, not knowing what else to do, you lift your head away from his, cup his own with your hand and stroke at it soothingly. “It’s okay, I'm not,” you breathe, rubbing at his hair. You can feel him swallowing several times against you and you hope that it’ll get to a point where his breathing will even out and he’ll just be able to fall asleep again. But just a moment later he draws away from you, pushes the duvet back and swings his body so that he’s sitting with his legs dangling over the edge of the bed. 

 

“You’ll get cold,” you say, trying to encourage him to lie down and pull the duvet back over him. 

 

His fingers are shaking. He’s trying to stop them by gripping hard onto the edge of the bed, but you can see them shifting and trembling in the lamp’s light. “I can’t lose you,” he says in a shuddering breath, half-turning his head towards you. “I can’t lose you.” You push your side of the duvet back and make to move towards him, but before you can shuffle over there completely he looks over his shoulder at you and chokes out, “Please tell me you didn't mean what you said earlier? About death being better than-better than staying here?” You stare at him. “Its been on my mind all day, I-I’ve been trying not to think about it, but I couldn't help it. Don’t you get it?” he asks, looking more desperately at you than you've ever seen him, “I can’t lose you. You have to stay here. You have to.” Your mouth opens and closes helplessly for a moment. “I’ve got no other choice. You have to.” 

 

“Okay, okay,” you soothe, breaking the gap between you and rubbing at his back with one of your hands. His skin, once warm, is rapidly cooling. “I’ll stay, I’ll stay. I'm sorry, I should never have said that, it was wrong of me, _so_ wrong, I didn't mean to hurt you.” He lets out a strangled sound and swings around so that he’s kneeling in front of you. You kneel on top of the duvet yourself and pull him closer towards you. “It’s all right,” you reassure him. He lets out another sound, pushes his head into your shoulder and kisses it. You smile and stroke at his hair, but you've barely begun to weave your hand through it when he lifts his head up and pressing his lips insistently against yours. You let out a sound of surprise into his mouth, before one of your hands slide down, curves around his neck and come to rest against his collarbone. His hands go down to your thighs. They try and lift your nightgown up, over your head. “Mmm mm,” you mutter against Mycroft’s lips as you move your hand down from his collarbone to try and stop his. His hands try and escape yours unrelentingly. You wrench your head back from his. He looks at you questioningly. “My love we can’t, we’re not at home,” you pant, one of your hands stroking at the hair that’s at the nape of his neck. He doesn’t listen. He just lets out a bit of a frustrated growl, before he kisses you again. You know that he just wants to forget his nightmare and quite frankly you just want to forget about yours too, so this time you let him pull your nightgown off, not caring if anyone should come in and see you mid-copulation. You let him dominate you. Let his body and scent overwhelm you. Let him take you towards oblivion as your bodies writhe frantically together and you gasp out until it’s over and he’s tumbling off you breathlessly. He falls asleep. 

 

You turn your head and look at him fondly, shuffling towards him until your chin is tucked underneath his head. He puts a lazy arm around you in his sleep, moving you until your body is completely turned into his. You have one moment more of smiling, before the thoughts that you've been trying to avoid come back to you. You think of your nightmare and Mycroft’s behaviour. The fact is both Moriarty’s and your words hadn’t been so far off the mark. Mycroft is falling apart. You wriggle, even as you think such a thing, you-with Mycroft’s scent all over you-feel guilty. But it’s true, you know, shifting your head a little. The top of it bumps against Mycroft’s chin. He stirs beside you, but doesn’t wake. You swallow. He’s falling apart and making all of this up, just as much as you are because he can’t think straight, and he can’t think straight because it turns out that to him, after all, you will always ultimately be the woman who was raped and needs protecting, just like Sherlock will always be the little boy dangling out of the window. Your stomach squirms. By keeping you here, you know, he’s trying to scrape back control, but he-in his utmost desperation-is failing to plan for the long-term. Failing to see that you can’t just stay here until God knows when. Failing to see that it’s not only not practical, but that it won’t be a healthy long-term solution for either of you, _or_ your relationship together. Failing to take proper account of every response Moriarty could have, and turning away common sense every time that it knocks at his door because he’s scared. The man Sherlock sometimes calls the British Government is scared. You bite at your lip. If he can’t get you out of this then you have to get yourself out. You have to do something because things can’t just go on as they are. At the moment-no, ever since your first year at university, or ever since the swimming pool incident with Carl in fact-your life’s just a continuous cycle of: Moriarty, no Moriarty, Moriarty…you can’t live like that any more. Mycroft’s certainly proven that he can’t either. You have to be able to do something to soothe him, soothe the both of you and free you both from all of this, but what? You pull away from Mycroft and stare long and hard into his face, hoping that, that might help you. The lamp is yet to be switched off and the softness of the light makes his face look warm and inviting. That doesn’t stop you noticing that he’s paler than usual though. You frown. Though you feel more reassured a moment later when you see that his eyelids are quite still and unmoving, at least he’s not having another nightmare. Still, his face, even as he sleeps, holds something weary and troubled about it. It makes you pull back from him. His arm flops back down onto the bed and his nose wriggles about a little, before he draws his arm close to his head instead, tucking it under. You roll around, push the duvet away and stand up. You wriggle back into your nightgown, before you glide towards the window. The fact is, as much as you want to act, you think as you stare out into the murky depths of the night, you’re useless whilst you’re stuck here. You know that Moriarty was right. You’ll never get out unless he’s caught or found dead somewhere. For a moment you wish that he would be. That would be so much simpler, but you know that, that’s never going to happen. You sigh. The coldness of the air seems to wrap itself around your legs. If Moriarty’s not going to die or give himself up how can you find a way out of this situation and get out of this safe house to actually implement it? How can you stop the cycle and protect everyone you love? You let out another sigh. Nothing comes to you. A tiredness that makes every inch of your bones ache fills you. You give up and turn back to the bed, succumbing to both it and Mycroft’s warmth. Hopefully you’ll be able to think of something tomorrow. Something that will enable you to find your wings and protect both Mycroft and you. 

 

* 

 

It comes to you a couple of hours later as if Moriarty’s whispered it into your ear, whilst you were asleep. You wake with your heart pounding. You let out a soft breath against Mycroft’s chest and your fingers scrape against the hair there, seeking reassurance. You feel the urge to be sick and you pull away from him, swinging away until your legs are dangling off the edge of the bed. The cool air soothes your spinning head. You take some deep breaths. That solution’s not actually a solution though is it? You think when your body’s calmed down a little. But the more you think about it, as you sit there with your fingers gripping the edge and with Mycroft behind you, the more you actually think it might be. A couple of tears leave your eyes. You feel chilled to the bone, afraid. Could you actually do it? That’s the big question. You look back at Mycroft and remember your earlier words. Something solidifies inside you, before you shiver and swing back into bed, pushing against Mycroft’s chest once more. 

 

*

 

When you wake that morning the other side of the bed is empty. If it wasn't for the note on the dresser then you might have thought that you’d dreamt all of the previous night. 

 

 **See you Saturday, M** the note says. 

 

There is no mention of his nightmare. 

 

* 

 

The next few days drift aimlessly by. You rest little and mainly stick to your room, thinking hard. You’re still not sure if you can go through with your idea. You know that it would hurt Mycroft for one thing. That it would feel like the harshest slap in the fact to him after everything. But at the same time you know that it would solve so much. You go back and forth on it all the while. You’re still not decided when Mycroft enters your room that Saturday afternoon looking flustered. 

 

“Sorry,” he says, coming across to where you’re turning away from the still dirty window, which you’d been attempting to peer out of. Mycroft makes a mental note in his head to tell someone about it. He kisses you quickly. His arms briefly go around your waist. “I had to pop into work after all.”

 

“Everything all right?” you ask lightly as you both make your way towards the comfortable red armchair that you’d dragged up from the living room and placed by the dresser. 

 

“Mm,” he says, sitting down on it and shifting a little as you sit down upon his lap. You face the contents of the room and the wall instead of him. You tilt your head back against his shoulder. His hands encircle your waist and there’s just a silence between you for a moment, one where you listen to the others soft breathing. You swallow, feeling guilty for even being allowed to appreciate that one act considering all your recent thoughts. If Mycroft only knew…your hands go to clutch at his. You toy and stroke them for a moment. 

 

“How’s trying to find Moriarty going?”

 

Mycroft starts a little, adjusts his position and huffs out a breath by your ear. “It’s-We’re getting there,” he says finally, telling you that in reality he couldn't be further from reaching that point. 

 

“Mm,” you say, as something swirls uneasily in your stomach again. You shift your position, “How long do you expect it will take?”

 

He swallows, “I can’t really”-

 

“Okay,” you say, stepping back from the conversation now that you can sense you've pushed it too far. 

 

He huffs out another breath. “We’ll get him F/N. You don’t need to worry.”

 

You nod. Your stomach feels tight. You feel sick with everything. You can tell that Mycroft’s still scraping around in the dark, sticking to his original plan, whilst he fumbles around, searching for a man who can’t be found. You tilt your head even further back against Mycroft’s shoulder. 

 

“We’ll get him,” he re-iterates, pressing a soft kiss to your hair. 

 

You nod again and close your eyes. But instead of feeling comforted and letting his words allow you to ignore the truth all you can see is Moriarty, out there somewhere, willing for this to go on for years and years as he avoids capture. You swallow and open your eyes. You shift forwards and look over your shoulder at Mycroft. He’s tired and aged even in the days since you last saw him. His hair is thinning more by the minute and worry lines are now almost permanently creased into his forehead. Still, despite all this, he attempts to give you a smile. As you give him a brave one back your heart feels like it’s breaking, shattering like glass on the floor. You know then that whether you can go through with your idea or not, you have to at least try. Have to at least try and put an end to all this, to stop it from going on for years, to stop Mycroft from losing even more of his life…

 

*

 

You use Sunday to steel yourself and get your head ready, taking care of what you need to.

 

Then on Monday you slip down into the kitchen, before anyone but the guards are at the house and have a light breakfast of cereal sprinkled with fruit. You eat quickly; take what you need from the drawer and slip back into your room. You don’t have that long, you know that much, and you need to do it, before the house becomes even fuller. The less people that are at risk the better. But for a moment you can’t help sit on your bed and hesitate. You roll one of the matches from the box you’d taken in the kitchen between your fingers. Is this really what you want? Is this really what’s best? You close your eyes. Moriarty’s face swirls in your mind. Mycroft’s face does too a moment later. You open your eyes. Remember how tired Mycroft had looked just a couple of days ago. Something solidifies inside you and you strike the match against the side of the box. 

 

*

 

Mycroft looks around the table. He’s just come from a briefing on the war on terror to this one in between being told that there’s still no sign of Moriarty. His mind is humming with tiredness, full of Afghanistan, Iraq, the possible complication of Iran, the fact that an eye, and a beady one at that, needs to be kept on North Korea, Moriarty, Brighton and you. He’s not entirely sure that Moriarty would go back to Brighton, but he’s not entirely sure that he wouldn't either so he’s got people looking there, as well as throughout London. He scrubs a hand back over his face, trying to remember in his increasingly sluggish haze what this meeting is supposed to be about. Business, finance, it suddenly comes back to him. He pulls the relevant folder out of his briefcase and settles it upon the table. He flips it open, but suddenly feeling tired again reaches for his coffee. He sips at it. The five Members of Parliament seated around the table are waiting for him to begin. Mycroft readies himself as he lowers the plastic cup down to the table and opens his mouth. There comes a curt knock upon the door, before it’s opened. Anthea steps inside. Mycroft frowns. 

 

“Sorry Sir,” she immediately apologizes, “But there’s been a bit of a problem and you need to come with me.”

 

Problem? He scrutinizes her face. He’s just come from a meeting on the war on terror. What can be more problematic than that?

 

Anthea opens her mouth, she looks oddly flustered. “It’s about Operation Patience Sir.”

 

Mycroft doesn’t remember getting on his feet but suddenly he is. Suddenly he’s sweeping back the documents that have started to slide out of the folder and his free hand is knocking clumsily against the cup as he does so. It tips over, sending the lid tumbling off and the brown liquid stretching across the table like a running rivulet of blood. The other men make sounds of annoyance and jump backwards, before they attempt to rescue their papers from the persistent coffee stain. He mumbles something about having to go, before he rushes towards the door and Anthea. 

 

“Show me,” he orders, pushing both the briefcase and the folder towards her. 

 

She nods, taking both things from him and clutching them to her chest as she turns. The clack-clack of her heels sounds the way as she leads him at a fast-paced walk through the multitude of corridors, before finally they return to his office and she pushes the door open. 

 

He hurries around to the other side of his desk where he’s had a screen installed on a small monitor facing the wall with live footage of the safe house that you’re in. He wakes up the screen and taps in the password via the touch screen-Anthea is the only other one beside himself to know of the password, he’s instructed her to keep an eye on things when he’s in meetings-and brings the footage back to life.

 

Instant horror fills him when he sees the flames that are licking up the side of the building and the smoke that unfurls through one smashed window. He recognizes it as yours and dread fills him. 

 

“I have to go,” he utters, tearing his gaze away from the screen for the briefest of moments so that he can look at Anthea. “I have to go.” 

 

Anthea touches his arm lightly with her hand. “A car is waiting outside Sir. The emergency services have already been called.”

 

He gives a distracted nod. “Lestrade?” he questions as she draws her hand away. He tries to hold on to his composure despite the fact that his insides are churning and a tremor’s beginning to run through him. 

 

She nods, her face serious. He flings on his coat quickly, before he hurries outside to the car at a jog. 

 

“Hurry,” he says as soon as he gets inside. The driver-the very same one who’d escorted you to the safe house-nods and slams his foot down. A screech fills the air. 

 

Mycroft checks his phone for messages the whole way, cursing the fact that he’d taken your phone from you and that he can’t therefore even try to get in touch with you. That is if you’re still conscious enough to be gotten in touch with. He swallows. A picture of you on the floor in your room, motionless and wan comes to his frantic mind. He drums his fingers impatiently against the side of the car. The driver catches sight of Mycroft’s unusually rumpled appearance in the windscreen mirror and urges the car on. 

 

One side of the building-the one where your room is-looks perilously close to caving in, despite the fact that the firemen are already working hard to try and extinguish the smoke. The fire seems reluctant to relinquish its hold. 

 

The police are there too, as well as an ambulance. A couple of Mycroft’s guards are looking harried as they stand close to it, their bulky forms contrasting horribly with the red shock blankets that have been draped over their shoulders. Gregory is standing by a police car, which is parked diagonally and has its lights flashing but no siren. The officer looks agitated as he talks loudly into a phone to someone. Mycroft does not see you. The building has already been contained by a fluttering length of blue and white police tape, which stretches all the way around it. All this Mycroft takes in as he automatically places his mobile down on the leather seat and leaps out of the car. He scans the crowd one last time for any sign of you, before he marches determinedly towards the safe house. 

 

“Mycroft!” he hears Gregory call anxiously from behind him, “Mycroft you can’t go in there!”

 

Mycroft picks up his pace, avoids anyone who looks like they might try and stop him and throws himself into the burning safe house. 

 

*

 

Miles away, as your body thrums with energy, you step inside the flat you share with Mycroft, take one last quick look around and leave a white envelope with a single name upon its front on the kitchen table. You leave the flat quickly after. There is no time to linger. 

 

*

 

Mycroft’s eyes sting, water runs down from them. The smoke fills his lungs, making him cough until he’s hoarse. He raises an arm, muffling his mouth with the fabric. He moves forwards. The staircase looks like it’s at risk from crumbling but it’s still intact for the moment. He goes to it slowly. As he moves towards the centre of the house the heat wraps him even further in its sticky embrace. His skin prickles. Sweat glistens upon his face, making his cheeks redder than they have ever been. As he begins to climb the stairs the top of the flames threaten his coat. He frees himself of it instinctively, letting the flames lick cautiously at it, before they consume it. What is one coat compared with you? His body shudders with another cough. The roar of the fire is so loud that he can’t hear any of the commotion behind him. 

 

*

 

“Sir you can’t possibly be thinking of”- Sally Donovan begins, her curled hair bouncing on top of her head as she comes to a stop where Lestrade is now right by the police tape, staring up at the house in agitation. 

 

He waves a hand to stop her words and paces back and forth a couple of times alongside a quarter of the tape. 

 

“Officer,” a different, breathless voice calls. 

 

Donovan expects her boss to give it the same short shrift he’d just given her, but when they both turn to find out that the voice belongs to Mycroft’s driver, Lestrade simply looks at him enquiringly and asks, “Yes? What is it?”

 

The driver takes a moment to catch his breath, “I just took a phone call Sir,” the driver says, holding up Mycroft’s mobile, “Turns out that F/N’s not inside, she already left, but”- he breaks off, looking up at the flame engulfed building that his boss is still inside. 

 

Greg doesn’t hesitate; he turns and lifts the tape up, before he ducks underneath it. 

 

 _“Sir,”_ Donovan exclaims, clearly alarmed. 

 

He whirls around and eyes both her and the driver, “Keep back and keep everyone else back. Don’t let anyone else inside,” Greg orders, waiting for her nod, before he turns back and breaks the rest of the distance between himself and the house. 

 

He steps inside and coughs, cursing Mycroft’s stupidity, before he makes his way to the stairs. 

 

*

 

Mycroft’s in your room, desperately trying to see through the haze of smoke and the water that fills his eyes where you might be. 

 

It’s a hard task-the room, ravaged by the fire, is largely unrecognisable. Everything that he can see is vastly different. His eyes scan across the free patches of floor, looking for perhaps a hand or a foot that will lead him to you. He sees nothing. 

 

It occurs to him that what with the fire having done such a good job in this room compared to the rest of the building that this is where it must have started. He wonders if someone had gotten into the room. Wonders if one of his guards had betrayed him again. Wonders if you’d been confronted by someone-not Moriarty-Mycroft’s pretty certain that he wouldn't want to risk his life, but one of his men. One of his men who had shown you that you couldn't be protected here either. His head spins, whether from the effects of the smoke or at the thought of you once again having to go through something so horrible he doesn’t know. He pushes further into the room. It’s then that he notices the photos on the floor. Some are half-charred, others are completely whole. One image of him and you just has him left in it. Mycroft’s head whirls again and something tightens inside him. He has to keep looking for you. Is it possible that you’re somewhere else in the house? Wherever you are you aren't here. He turns and makes his way back to the door. He’s just reached it when a figure appears suddenly in front of him. Mycroft’s heart jumps in panic, before it settles back down again once he realizes it’s Gregory. 

 

Gregory looks relieved to see him and gestures with the hand that’s not covering his mouth for Mycroft to follow him. 

 

Mycroft shakes his head. He won’t leave without you. He’s the one who put you here and he’ll be the one to get you out.

 

Gregory looks annoyed. He grasps onto Mycroft’s arm with his free hand and attempt to tug him back towards the stairs. 

 

Mycroft resists, standing firm and pulling his arm back. 

 

Gregory wrenches his hand away from his mouth. He coughs for a moment. Then he yells, “She’s not here!” Mycroft’s brow furrows. He stumbles forwards. “Your driver”- Gregory breaks off to cough-“Got a message.”

 

Mycroft’s face clears and he hurries towards the stairs. Gregory, looking relieved, follows him. 

 

As soon as both men tumble back out into the fresh air they begin to cough, first lightly then rather violently. 

 

Gregory, his eyes watering, grabs hold of Mycroft’s arm and attempts to drag him over to the ambulance. 

 

Mycroft makes a sound of hoarse protest in between coughing, shrugs Gregory off and makes his stumbling way back to his driver instead. 

 

“Sir,” his driver says worriedly, coming forwards when Mycroft’s closer and guiding him to sit down in the back of the car. 

 

He tries to call across to get a blanket, but Mycroft waves a hand from where he’s now sitting with his legs out of the car and says, “’M fine. F/N?” 

 

The driver’s face clears and he passes Mycroft his phone. “I know perhaps I shouldn't have answered it Sir, but I thought that it might be important.”

 

Again Mycroft waves a hand to say that it’s of no consequence. _“F/N?”_ he pushes, his tone more desperate. 

 

The driver nods, “It was Anthea who called Sir. She said that after going back through this morning’s footage of the house she’d seen F/N leaving the house shortly after the fire begun.”

 

Mycroft’s brow furrows. “She left?” He looks around, half-expecting to see you skulking off to the side somewhere, looking guilty about what you’d just put him through. But there is no trace of you. 

 

“Yes Sir,” his driver says gently. 

 

Mycroft looks back at him. Suddenly he makes a realization. “I need to get home, as fast as I can,” he says. 

 

“Mr. Holmes?” the driver says, looking alarmed by the expression that’s come over his employer’s face and by the way he suddenly swings his legs back inside the car. He does such a thing so quickly that it starts off another coughing fit. 

 

“It was a distraction Anthony,” Mycroft begins once his coughing has settled down a little. “F/N started it as a distraction.” His eyes are red-rimmed and watery. “Please, I need to get home.”

 

Anthony nods and touches Mycroft’s shoulder quickly, before he hurries to the front of the car. 

 

They pull away a moment later, ignoring the cry of, “Mycroft!” from Gregory who jogs after the car until he can follow it no longer. 

 

Mycroft pushes a button on his phone and pulls it to his ear. 

 

“Sir?” Anthea picks up almost immediately. 

 

“Flat-you need to go to-flat,” Mycroft manages to get out, his throat tickly and painful. 

 

“Sir I'm already there,” Anthea says and Mycroft’s heart flips over because her voice sounds all tentative and wrong.

 

“F/N?” he checks. 

 

Anthea lets out a strangled sort of noise. Mycroft’s head spins. “She’s been here Sir but she’s not here now. There was-there was an envelope on the kitchen table addressed to you in her handwriting.”

 

Mycroft feels like he’s barely breathing. “And?” he urges. 

 

“Sir,” she says bracingly. 

 

“Did you open it?” Mycroft asks, his voice as hard as it can be. 

 

“Sir,” Anthea says again, as if that is the only thing she’s capable of saying. 

 

“Anthea I need”- Mycroft begins impatiently. 

 

“It was a suicide note Sir,” Anthea blurts out. 

 

Mycroft lets out a whoosh of breath. Black spots dance in front of him, becoming larger and larger until they nearly obscure his vision completely. His body sways in his seat and his free hand comes up to clutch at the side of the car. He hears Anthony exclaim something in concern, but although he swings his head towards the direction of the voice he can’t make him out. He hears Anthea begin to say something too. He shakes his head and slowly his vision starts to clear. “Anthea I need”- he begins, breaking off when he realizes that he’s not quite sure what he needs from her in that moment. 

 

Thank God Anthea seems to have composed herself enough to think sensibly. “Favourite places Sir?” she says, “Anywhere she might go?”

 

Mycroft scrunches his eyes shut and tries to think rationally. Flashes of the university, of the house that you used to live in come to him, but he doesn’t think you’d go there. He thinks of his parents’ cottage, pictures you floating on the lake, but again… _Brighton_ it comes to him, your parents’ graves. Yes, yes that must be it. After everything that’s where you’d go, he feels sure of it. “Brighton,” he breathes as his eyes open, “I need to go to Brighton.” Anthony nods to show that he’s both heard and understood. 

 

“Brighton Sir?” Anthea questions, processing that information. 

 

“Yes, yes it’s where she used to live. I need-I need as many people there at once. I need the cemetery to be checked, the pier, the beach, the sea, the _sea_ ; she’s always loved water. Oh God, I”- Mycroft breaks off, his head spinning again. Nausea rises through him; he thinks he’s going to be sick. 

 

“Sir? Sir it’s all right,” Anthea reassures him, “I’ll have all those places checked, scouted. We’ll find her.”

 

Mycroft lets out a little breath. “Find her Anthea,” he utters. “Find her please.” 

 

“Yes Sir,” Anthea responds crisply. 

 

He hears the click of the phone as she hangs up. He draws his own phone slowly down from his ear. 

 

“We’ll take the quickest route Sir, be there in no time,” Anthony says, looking in the windscreen mirror at him encouragingly. 

 

“Yes, good,” Mycroft says distractedly, his eyes looking haunted as he pictures you swimming out to sea and not coming back. He closes his eyes, leans back and takes a couple of moments to try and compose himself. But his heart’s pounding, his body thrumming and his mouth feels dry and breathless. Tears of stress and anxiety begin to leak out of closed eyelids. He opens his eyes and swipes the tears away irritably. He will not fall apart now. You will be all right. You _have_ to be all right. His hand tightens around his phone and he pulls it in front of him again, pushing a different button this time, before he holds it to his ear. 

 

“Mycroft?” Gregory asks. 

 

“Brighton”-

 

“I know, Anthea just told me,” Gregory interrupts and Mycroft feels glad that Anthea’s on the ball even if he isn't. “Mycroft I'm heading there now, so are Sherlock and John, but what’s going on?” 

 

“No,” Mycroft blurts out, “No, I don’t want my brother there.” Fear grasps hold of him. He doesn’t know what might be waiting for him in Brighton. All he knows is that it probably won’t be anything good and he wants his brother as far away from it as possible. “It’s bad enough that F/N”-

 

_“Mycroft?”_

 

Mycroft lets out a breath. “I don’t know what’s going on,” he finally concludes, his voice sounding upset and strained, “All I know is that she’s probably going to Brighton and-and I think she intends to harm herself.”

 

Gregory lets out a breath. “It’s all right,” he says, “We’ll get there. She’ll be okay.”

 

Mycroft nods and disconnects the call without another word. He rings his brother a second later. 

 

“We’re on our way,” is the first thing Sherlock says. 

 

“I don’t want”- Mycroft begins but-

 

“We’ll meet you there brother,” Sherlock interrupts, before he ends the call without another word. 

 

Mycroft swallows and lowers his phone, accepting Sherlock’s imminent presence without further protest and feeling oddly reassured about it. All he can do now is wait. Wait and hope that someone will get to you in time even if it isn't him. He wants you to comfort him, reassure him, but you’re not there, so for the first time in his life he turns to God. 

 

*

 

You breathe in and out. You've done it. You've got to Brighton and now all you need to do is…you look out to sea. It stretches in front of you, vast, empty and impenetrable. It’s choppy further out, but by the shore it’s not too bad. 

 

You shift your position. If you’re going to do this then you need to act fast. You haven’t even gone to see your parent’s graves because of such a thing. You know it won’t take long for Brighton to be swarming with Mycroft’s men. But if all goes to plan then it won’t be long, before you might see your parents again either. You swallow. There’s no time to think of might’s or maybes, even though the thought of seeing your parents again is one of the only comforting things you can cling on to right now. Instead you think of Mycroft. You try to picture him watching the fire at the safe house and wonder what he’d made of it. Wonder when he realized that you’d been the one to start it. Is he close to arriving here? Or is he stuck on the motorway somewhere, cursing? You swallow. You shouldn't think of him either. Your resilience starts to crumble every time you do. But even as you think that your mind goes back to him. Your body begins to tremble and your hand tugs the blue handkerchief with Mycroft’s initials on it out of your pocket instinctively. You hold it out in front of you. It wavers in between both of your trembling hands. It’s the last fragment you have from your life with Mycroft. The last relic. That is aside from the grey coat you’re wearing over the rest of your thin clothes. 

 

“I love you,” you tell the handkerchief, picturing Mycroft’s face and all the love he’s given to you. “I-I don’t expect you to understand, b-but I'm doing this for you as much as for me. We’ll both be free after today.” You swallow and let the handkerchief go. It gets carried out to sea in the breeze. You make to follow it, but-

 

Someone clears their throat behind you. 

 

You look around, over your shoulder. 

 

Moriarty’s standing a few feet behind you. He’s wearing a dark suit and tie that would be perfect for a funeral. He nods and takes his hands respectfully out of his pockets as your eyes meet. 

 

You nod back. Something about this feels right. Right about having Moriarty be the only witness to what you’re about to do. Right about having Mycroft somewhere hopefully far away, protected. You let out a little breath and turn back towards the sea. 

 

Slowly you move forwards. The coat hinders your movement but you know that it’ll help in the end so you keep it on. 

 

You wade out until the water’s up to your waist. Then you let out a little breath and turn around. 

 

Moriarty’s still watching from the shore. He looks smaller now. You look at him one last time. You know that you’ll never see him again. Then you turn back around and continue to move forwards.

 

The sea’s rougher here, wilder and more unpredictable. The waves slosh forcefully into your side, tossing you about as if you’re a bottle and you have to fight just to stay still. The water’s nearly up to your neck. You swing your head back so that you can look at the shore. Everything looks so far away. You tilt your head back. A couple of seagulls soar overhead. They remind you of vultures waiting for a feast so you look down again. Your head spins. The waves swell around you and you begin to panic. You suddenly feel very small indeed. You scrunch your eyes shut. Try and picture Mycroft. Mycroft’s face in your hands, his lips coming closer and closer until-

 

A wave splashes over your head, drenching your hair and face. You open your eyes and cough and splutter, your arms struggling to keep you afloat. Your body thrashes about. You can’t do this. God you can’t do this. You want to free yourself, free Mycroft, but when it comes down to it you can’t even do that. You begin to cry and gasp out. You’re useless, pathetic, broken and still not beautiful. You whirl around so that you’re properly facing the shore. Mycroft could be coming at any second. You can’t do this to him, you just can’t. You want to go back, back to shore, but your clothes are weighing you down, and you know that they’ll prevent you from getting back as quickly as you want. You tug Mycroft’s coat off with clumsy, frantic fingers. What’s the loss of one coat if you can get back to Mycroft all the sooner? _I'm coming, my love,_ you think almost giddily as you raise an arm, making to swim and chop through the water with it, but a wave creeps up behind you. It crashes over your head. This time you don’t surface. 

 

*

 

Greg races down towards the sea. He’d caught sight of your figure as he’d darted out of the car just a moment ago. A handful of officers hurtle after him, but he yells at a couple of them to secure Moriarty, the lone figure on the beach. He has no time to look back as he races past the man who might very well be responsible for all this, but he expects cries or shouts of a struggle to fill his ears nonetheless. Apart from the sound of the sea, sloshing against the shore though there is nothing. If he’d turned around he would have been witness to Moriarty giving himself up without a fight. Witness to Moriarty simply suggesting that the two officers restraining him be careful of his nice suit. Greg picks up his pace. You disappear and he lets out a cry of anguish, before he throws himself into the sea. 

 

*

 

Inky darkness broken up by a sideways diamond of light is all that you can see. 

 

You want to fight but you can’t. Something tangles itself around your waist. In your mind’s eye you picture seaweed. You want to kick against it and free yourself, but you don’t seem to have the energy to. It’s much easier just to float here and sink into oblivion.

 

A couple of bubbles escape your lips as instead of going towards the light you succumb to the darkness. 

 

*

 

Greg pulls you to the surface with difficulty. Once you both break it he adjusts his hold on you, tilts his head back and coughs. The hacking movements jostle you against him and he fights to keep his grip on you. Once he’s got a comfortable hold he manoeuvres you both to shore. 

 

When his feet touch the soft, sandy bottom and he’s more walking than wading, hunched over as he attempts to heave you the last few steps, one of the other male officers hurries forwards to assist him. 

 

Greg lets out a heavy breath as he helps lay you down across the sand where the lapping water can’t touch you. Your face is grey, your eyelids softly closed, your hair a messy tangle around your head and your lips slightly parted. You could almost be sleeping. 

 

Greg goes down on his knees with an unpleasant thump. He grimaces as the harder surface of the sand that’s close to the shore sends a jolt of pain through him, before he brushes your damp hair back without a care from your face and puts his head down close to your mouth. “C’mon,” he mutters, trying to shut out the persistent thump-thump of his heart and the soft hum of people talking around him so that he might be able to hear something. For a second he thinks he hears a tremulous breath leave you, but a moment later he realizes that it had come from his own mouth. Ten seconds wait and still there’s nothing. He draws back, his hair flopping over his forehead and watery droplets going everywhere because of it. He shifts his position so that he can begin CPR. 

 

“C’mon, c’mon,” he urges you as he applies pressure to your chest, “You've got this far and you’re not dying on me now. You’re not. Do you hear me F/N?” he pauses his speech so that he can blow a couple of breaths into your mouth. He draws back and returns to doing chest compressions. “You've got someone who really loves you. Mycroft needs you F/N. You've got friends who want to be there for you”- tears of frustration begin to leak out of his eyes. He releases the pressure on your chest and bends down towards your mouth once more. He’s almost there when a gasp leaves your mouth and he jerks his head back. Your hand tangles loosely around his wrist. You’re weak. You barely have any strength left. Greg looks at you in astonishment. You blink hazily up at him, tilting your head the smallest fraction off the ground. Your breath comes out in a wheeze. 

 

“It’s all right, it’s all right F/N, an ambulance is on its way, you’re going to be all right,” Greg recovers to reassure you automatically, more tears sliding down his face, this time of relief. 

 

His words come through to you slowly, but they do come through to you. You blink a couple of times and nod. Your whole head feels heavy. Your vision narrows until all you can see is a bookmark size Greg.

 

“F/N?” Greg asks, sounding more worried and anxious. You can tell that he knows you’re sliding towards the darkness. 

 

You try to speak but all that comes out of your mouth is a grunt, before your eyes slide shut again. 

 

“F/N? F/N? Stay with me. Come on, stay with me,” Greg urges, patting at your cheek. You don’t even protest. You’re lost to the world again. Greg bites down on his lip and checks your breathing. 

 

A moment later he hears a, _“No!”_ that has his heart jumping and has him looking up. 

 

The beach, once almost devoid of people, is now swarming with them. His officers, Mycroft’s men _and,_ barreling through them all, his face pale, his eyes fixed completely on your still form, _Mycroft._

 

“No, no, he can’t be here,” Greg instantly reacts, waving a hand at Donovan who’s standing closest to him, “Get him away.”

 

She moves forwards, as do a couple of other officers who've heard Greg’s words, but somehow Mycroft keeps getting closer and closer. 

 

“Donovan get him away,” Greg commands, his voice firmer and more urgent. 

 

She hurries forwards and attempts to push Mycroft’s shoulder back with her hand. He pushes past her. 

 

“F/N? F/N?” he calls. 

 

Greg scrambles to his feet, sending a flurry of sand up into the air. “Keep checking her breathing,” he orders the officer closest to him, before he begins to move around you. “Mycroft you can’t be here,” he urges, coming to stand in front of the other man and putting his hands on his shoulders. 

 

Mycroft tries to look around him at you; a gurgle leaves his mouth. 

 

“She’s breathing, it’s very faint, but she’s breathing,” Greg reassures him, shaking his friend a little as he keeps him back. 

 

Mycroft nods dumbly, tears on his face. 

 

The ambulance arrives a moment later, closely followed by Sherlock and John. 

 

The paramedics won’t let anyone ride with you in the ambulance, not even Mycroft, so Greg and he head to the hospital in one car, whilst Sherlock and John go in another. No one speaks. 

 

At the hospital you’re taken away at once, leaving everybody else to the mercy of the waiting room. Greg phones Molly and tells her a rough account of what’s happened. She’s distraught. It’s the worst call he’s ever had to make to her and his stomach feels even more tense and knotted up because of it. Molly says that she’ll leave for the hospital at once and Greg knows that there’s no point in trying to stop her. He gets off the phone to observe that Sherlock’s standing in a silent vigil next to Mycroft who sits hunched in his chair with his head buried in his hands. He’s not crying. He’s just waiting. Waiting and letting the shock of everything ripple over him. John sits on a chair on Mycroft’s other side, alternating between looking at both of the Holmes brothers concernedly and turning his head away so that he can look at the blank white wall. Greg slides his phone slowly back into his pocket. His clothes and hair are still damp from the sea. He’s been offered a change of clothes and a chance to dry himself but he’s loath to take it just in case any news should come or someone should need him. He takes everyone in again. Perhaps he should cross the room to the vending machine and get a drink for everyone. But he hesitates from doing so. Instead he says, “Molly’s on her way.” Both Sherlock and John nod. Mycroft doesn’t move. 

 

John clears his throat, clearly searching for something to say. “Hopefully we’ll get some news soon,” he settles on, running a hand awkwardly through his hair. 

 

Greg nods. 

 

But no news is forthcoming until just after Molly’s arrival when finally a nurse comes and steps towards them all. 

 

Everyone aside from Mycroft looks up. Sensing the sudden tension that fills the air Mycroft lifts his head up, blinking a little hazily. 

 

“Are you all here for Miss F/N L/N?” she asks the room at large, as if she can’t believe that someone willing to commit suicide could possibly have so many friends. 

 

Mycroft stands up a little clumsily and Sherlock shifts closer to him. The nurse looks at them both. No one pays any attention to Anthea who slips inside the room quietly. 

 

“I-I'm her”- Mycroft breaks off, his voice cracking with emotion. 

 

Sherlock steps forwards. “He’s her boyfriend,” he informs the nurse coolly.

 

The nurse lets out a little breath and nods. Her eyes flick towards Greg. “Has she got any family? Relatives that I could contact?”

 

“No,” Greg says, standing up, “We’re the only ones she has,” he swallows. 

 

Both Holmes brothers shift their position, John looks like something’s haunting him and Molly lets out a little sound. 

 

The nurse’s eyes go back to Mycroft. “In that case then Mr. er”-

 

“Holmes,” Mycroft informs her, stepping forwards with anxious eyes. 

 

 _“Holmes,”_ she nods, “Perhaps you could come with me.” 

 

Something tightens inside Mycroft, but he nods resolutely. 

 

“Is she?”- Greg begins without being able to help it. 

 

The nurse looks back at him and everyone holds their breath. “I need to speak to Mr. Holmes,” she says rather sternly, before her face softens a little at the clear worry in the room and she adds, “But Miss F/N L/N is alive yes.”

 

Mycroft lets out a whoosh of breath and his head spins. Molly, still in her coat, clutches onto Greg and he squeezes at her shoulder. John runs his hands across his face. Sherlock steps towards his brother, places a hand on his shoulder and says, “There, she’s alive brother”-

 

“I need to speak to Mr. Holmes,” the nurse repeats, sounding harsher this time, and the momentary relief in the room freezes, before it evaporates completely. Sherlock’s hand slides off his brother’s shoulder. Mycroft nods. 

 

He allows himself to be led away from the sanctuary of his friends and brother and into the depths of the hospital. 

 

The nurse takes him into a private room. 

 

The room is largely devoid of furnishings. A bed is in the corner against the wall, whilst a small desk with a computer stands opposite them with two chairs close by. A small, square painting just opposite the door shows light filtering through the leaves of a tree. It’s so bright that it nearly obscures them. Mycroft’s heart plummets. He knows what a room like this is used for. 

 

“Take a seat Mr. Holmes,” the nurse says, gesturing towards one of the uncomfortable looking dark brown chairs. 

 

Mycroft shifts his position, staying close to the door. “I’d prefer to stand,” he says, “Or see F/N if I could.”

 

The nurse swallows and gestures for him to come forwards like she’s moving a child who’s in the wrong place for a photograph.

 

He takes a couple of obliging steps but does not sit down. 

 

The nurse sighs a little and goes to sit down herself. A silence fills the air between them, and, knowing that it won’t be broken until he does as she wishes, Mycroft goes to sit down too. 

 

Looking more at ease the nurse finally begins to speak. 

 

Mycroft finds that he doesn’t look at anything in particular at the beginning of her words. Finally his gaze slides to fix upon the painting. Her words seem garbled and incorrect to him. All he takes in is the fact that you've come out of the other side of a cardiac arrest and are now breathing only with the help of a machine. 

 

“Mr. Holmes?” the nurse questions him gently, tapping his knee lightly with her hand, before she draws back again. 

 

He looks at her as if he’s in a trance. He gets the sense that she’s just asked him something important. But instead of trying to re-call what that might be he just takes in the fact that she’s barely older than he is. She has two young children and she left her house in a rush this morning after quickly eating her cereal. Her alarm had failed to go off and her little one was being a nuisance. She probably didn't expect to be giving him such bad news today any more than he expected to be receiving it. He becomes suddenly aware that he’s biting at his lip, which is very dry. He stares at her a moment longer. “Perhaps now would be a good time for me to see F/N?” he suggests, used to being the one in control and unable to take in what she has just told him. 

 

She opens her mouth uncertainly, clearly wondering whether she should attempt to explain things to him again. He stares at her. Evidently his expression tells her that he’s tired and that this is not something, which is up for debate, for she huffs out a breath and nods. “Yes, of course,” she says a moment later. 

 

Together they rise and leave the room. 

 

She takes him through another couple of winding corridors until finally she slows to a stop outside a room that’s three-quarters down. She nods at him and opens the door. 

 

He steps past her and inside. Just the sight of you is enough to have his stomach churning, him stepping forwards and breathing out, _“F/N.”_

 

You’re lying perfectly still on your back in the hospital bed wearing a hospital gown. Tubes and wires are all around you. Your face looks soft, but pale. Your mouth is drawn in a line that’s somewhere between being a smile and something more serious. Your eyebrows reach down towards your cheeks. You are tiny and vulnerable. Anyone could come in here and do absolutely anything to you. It makes Mycroft step further forwards. He wants to protect you. 

 

His eyes have just landed on how your fingers are both slightly and loosely curled down towards your palm when the nurse says softly, “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He jumps and tenses up a little, he’d almost forgotten that she was there, but he nods curtly, dismissing her. The door closes a moment later. 

 

He takes the single blue seat that’s beside your bed and slips his hand over yours. Your palms fit together as perfectly as they always have done and he squeezes you for a moment. His eyes scan your face. You may be pale, your hair still damp from the sea, and your body may be fragile after the rounds of CPR and the madness, which you've put yourself through, but you are still beautiful to him. He stares at you for a few moments more and then opens his mouth. He wants to tell you, tell you that you’re beautiful and that you’re still his and that he’s still yours and that you’re going to wake up and get through this, but before he can the door opens and the nurse steps back inside. 

 

Mycroft stares at her in astonishment. Has it really been a few minutes?

 

She looks at him sympathetically, before she clears her throat and steps forwards. “You’re aware now, after seeing her”- she breaks off and her eyes flit to you, before they go back to Mycroft-“More about what the situation is.”

 

Mycroft doesn’t know what she’s blathering on about. You’re still here and you’re still beautiful. 

 

“F/N’s a very sick woman Mr. Holmes”- the nurse begins, stepping further into the room. 

 

Mycroft grips your hand more tightly and half-rises out of his chair as if he might be able to shield you from such words just by leaning over you. 

 

The nurse steps further forwards. “She may not look it outwardly,” she begins slowly, and something starts to tremble inside Mycroft, “But the damage that’s been done to her internally is overwhelming. I need to make sure that it’s clear to you Mr. Holmes, the chances of her being able to breathe without the aid of a machine is”-

 

“No,” Mycroft utters, letting go of you now and marching towards the door. 

 

“Mr. Holmes?” the nurse questions as he sweeps past her. 

 

He stops and looks around at her over his shoulder. “Keep the machine on,” he orders. 

 

_“Mr”-_

 

“Keep it on. She’ll be fine. I’ll pay for the room for however long she uses it, for however long it takes. She’ll be fine,” he says, his voice getting more choked the longer he talks. He swings his head away again, before he walks out of the room. The door clangs shut behind him. 

 

He picks up his pace as soon as he leaves the room, breaking into a jog. He can feel the nurse slipping out of the room behind him, feel her eyes on his back, but he doesn’t stop. 

 

Gregory, whose come to see if he can be of any support and abused his power in order to find the room, stops halfway down the corridor when he sees Mycroft. His body becomes rigid and dread fills him up, but he stumbles backwards just a moment later when Mycroft barrels into him. 

 

“They want to turn the machine off!” Mycroft wails in a voice that’s so thick with emotion that Gregory can barely decipher it, whilst he waves a hand behind him in the direction of the nurse. Gregory locks eyes with her for a moment over Mycroft’s shoulder. She gives him a curt nod, before he turns his attention back to Mycroft once more. “I can’t-I can’t!” Mycroft blurts out. Then he loses control completely and clutches onto the front of Gregory’s still damp shirt as he pushes his head into his chest and cries. 

 

Gregory stumbles back a little again at the force of his friend. Then, as Mycroft burrows even closer to him he tentatively places his hands on Mycroft’s back and pushes him closer. Mycroft lifts his head slightly further up and lets out a sob against Gregory’s shoulder. Gregory’s never seen him like this. Never seen his friend lose control so completely. He swallows the lump of emotion that’s rising in his throat back down and tightens his grip on Mycroft’s back with one hand, before he goes to awkwardly stroke at his hair with the other, hoping that, that might calm the man who seems to be choking on his sobs as he attaches himself to him. Mycroft shudders and sniffles against him. Gregory’s strokes get firmer and less tentative. He rests the side of his head against Mycroft’s, whilst pain shoots through him and he wishes that things were different. Wishes that he was in the middle of teaching Mycroft how to propose to you rather than say goodbye. Mycroft clutches onto Gregory’s shirt all the more firmly, making it wetter with his tears. 

 

“I can’t,” he mouths when he finally lifts his head up and steps back, too hoarse to even say the words properly. 

 

Gregory swallows. Mycroft’s looking at him pleadingly, as if he’s asking for an escape route. A few tears slide down Gregory’s own face. He swallows again. There can be no escaping this. He has to get Mycroft to do what’s right. 

 

“Yes you can,” he says in a gravelly voice. Mycroft looks at him, drinking in every word, his eyes completely fixed on him. Gregory swallows again. “You can do this because you would do anything for her wouldn't you? And this-this is the last thing she needs from you. You’re not going to let her die alone are you? In a room without anyone she cares about?” 

 

Mycroft stares at him. Slowly he shakes his head, “N-No,” he says hoarsely, “I'm not going to let that happen.” He scrubs at his face robotically, attempting, even now, to make himself look presentable for you. 

 

Gregory hates himself, but he feels relief all the same at having managed to convince Mycroft to do something, which he’d know he’d regret if he didn't. Mycroft nods at him and makes to turn around, but Gregory, remembering something, says, “Wait.” Mycroft looks back at him. Gregory pulls something out of his pocket looking sheepish. He steps forwards. “Anthea came, she-she gave me this to give to you,” he says, holding the white envelope that has Mycroft’s name out to him. Mycroft eyes it for a moment and swallows. He takes it with a trembling hand, before he turns and returns to your room. 

 

You look no different from the last time he saw you. This time though, instead of sitting on the singular blue chair he sits on the bed instead, so that he’s level with your hip and able to lay out your hand across his lap if he so wants to. 

 

“They want me to switch the machine off F/N,” he says sadly, staring at you. 

 

He turns to the letter. 

 

 _Mycroft_ [it reads once he’s taken it out of the envelope with a shaky hand and is now looking at it with a furrowed brow.] _If you are reading this then it more than likely means I have hurt you terribly and done the worst thing that I could ever do to you. I am very sorry._ [Mycroft bites down hard on his lip and looks at you for a moment, before he returns to the letter.] _You’re probably wondering why, and, although I don’t want you to, you’re probably already blaming yourself. Both of these things are partly why I wanted to write this letter. Another is because I wanted to say goodbye to you._ [The word ‘goodbye’ is almost obscured with tears. Mycroft pictures you, hunched over, perhaps by the dresser, tears streaming down your face. He shivers and looks at you again for reassurance.] _I know it sounds stupid, but even though I’ve only just died_ [clearly you weren't expecting him to have the privilege of reading this so soon] _it feels, in a weird way, like I died a long time ago. Like ever since I found Moriarty in my room that first year at university, ever since he did that to me for the first time I’ve just been living on borrowed time. That doesn’t mean you or all the moments I’ve shared with you over the years mean any less to me though my love. But I just-when it comes down to it, the truth is I think we've been running and trying to hide from something that we couldn't escape from all these years. It dawned on me, when he came to our home and did that to me_ [Mycroft grips the paper hard] _that he will always be there. That he will always catch up with us and be in our lives, no matter how much we pretend otherwise. But it wouldn't have been healthy for things to continue that way. Not for either of us or for our relationship. So I came up with a plan._ [Mycroft begins to cry.] _You can probably guess what it is, can’t you my love? It was if I were to die. So, I thought about it, and please don’t think that I didn't agonize over it because I did. I knew it would hurt you. But in the long-term it was the only way -just like you with the safe house-that I could think of protecting you and our friends. I want you all to be free from this. I didn't want it to continue any longer. For us to be snatching what little time we can have with one another, but not being able to have a proper relationship. You and all our friends deserve happily-ever-afters. I might not get my own. But I'm hopeful that one day I’ll see you again._ [Fat tears from Mycroft’s face drop down onto the letter. He rubs at his eyes clumsily, continuing to grip the letter between one fisted hand.] _This way, in spite of the short-term pain that you’ll have to endure, you and everyone else will eventually be free. Free in a way you never would have been if I’d continued to stay stuck at the safe house. It broke me, I don’t think you realized just how much when you suggested it. I know to you that was the only way you could think of protecting me, of keeping me safe, but to me it was throwing away every inch of freedom that I’d gained in the last five years. I dreamt that first night there, just before you had your nightmare (don’t be ashamed of it) that Moriarty told me the only way I would ever leave was if he were to die or be locked up. I know you would probably hate me taking so much stock by Moriarty’s words, but in one sense he was right. You admitted nearly as much yourself. I had no choice. I hope you can at least see that a little bit Mycroft. If there was any other way then I would never have left…_ [tears stain the letter] _but I couldn't put you through any of this any longer. It wasn't fair. You've changed too much as it is and become aware of things that I wish you never had. All the cameras, bugs, all the means of security that I wish you could have just remained oblivious to. Not to mention that you've been tired, exhausted and in a panicked state ever since Moriarty came to the flat. You don’t deserve to be in such a state. I don’t want you to be that way any longer. You deserve nothing less than happiness._

 

 _I paused for a little while in the writing of this letter to you. I guess now that I’ve explained things the best way I can, and I know what comes next, I'm not ready for it. I'm not ready to say goodbye to you._ [Mycroft looks up, his face damp, his lips slightly parted. He looks across at you and slowly draws your hand onto his lap with his. He strokes it every now and again as he reads on.] _I love you Mycroft. I know that even after reading this far you might be wondering how I can feel such a thing and still go through with such a terrible thing. You might wonder too, after all I’ve said about not wanting to let Moriarty win, why I chose to do this. But to me, this isn't letting him win. I am-trying to anyway-grant us all our freedom and make sure that his ability to harm us is at least lessened. Your love and the love of our friends is what spurred me on, the only thing that gave me the strength to do this. With me gone everyone else and you are guaranteed to get a bit more peace from him. Maybe enough to allow you all to live the type of lives that you deserve._

 

 _Sorry, that paragraph wasn't supposed to be more explaining, but I guess I feel like I’ve got a lot to explain. A lot to do to try and put your mind at ease._

 

 _The most important thing though that I could ever tell you is that I love you and I know that you will have a happy life if you continue to let love into your heart._ [More of your tears smudge the page. Some of Mycroft’s join them.] _You have given me so much and it would take several novels to say how much I feel for you._ [More tears.] _I may not be with you any longer in a visual sense Myc, but I will always, always love you and be your biggest cheerleader. I might not be able to reply back, but I want you to know that I will be listening if you ever want to talk to me and-if I'm lucky-maybe sometimes I will be that voice in your mind, the one that you don’t even know where it comes from._

 

 _I don’t know how to say goodbye it turns out, so I’ll just leave you with these few words. Firstly, please don’t ever blame yourself. I accept your reasons for putting me in the safe house and though it’s true I hated it you have never, ever done anything that I could actually hate you for. Secondly, please, as soon as you can, as soon as you've taken this all in, get out there and live your life. Do not think you can’t. You deserve to be happy Myc. Thirdly, and I know that I have no right to ask this of you, but don’t cry. I am free now.  
Yours forever-F/N. _

 

Mycroft pushes the letter down against the envelope, before he places them both aside behind him. 

 

“I’ve already broken your third request,” he says with the faintest trace of humour and a watery smile as he turns back to you and clasps the hand of yours that’s on his lap in between both of his. He sniffs a little and becomes solemn as he takes in your face. Your immobile, unmoving beautiful face. Something snaps inside him, causing him to speak once more, “I-I know you've tried to explain my dear, but I-I still can’t understand all of this properly.” He pauses for a moment and scrunches his face up, before he bows his head, “This-This _silliness!_ ” He looks up at you again. Fixes his eyes on where yours would usually be open. “If you-if you were thinking such things, actually considering such possibilities then you should have spoken to me about it. I-I know why you didn't of course”- he breaks off, gathering his thoughts, “You knew that I would have put a stop to it,” he announces in a strong tone, before he instantly crumbles, “Why? Why did you ever think that this was a solution?” He allows your hand to softly fall off his lap and fists his own hands there instead. “There I was, thinking, _trying,_ to keep you safe,” he swallows and looks away from you, “But I should have known,” he goes on bitterly, “That locking you up in a safe house was just locking you up with your own worst enemy.” He looks back at you. Again it strikes him how very similar Sherlock and you are. “My brother, well-you know I'm sure that he would have done the same.” He unclenches his hands now and grasps at yours again, shifting his position as he does so. “Perhaps he’ll understand more about this than I do,” he murmurs quietly to himself, stroking at your hand absent-mindedly with his fingers. “You have always been as reckless as each other,” he tells you with a bit of a smile on his face, “I’ve always felt as if I’ve been running around the outskirts, trying to keep you both safe.” The smile disappears. “You tell me not to blame myself, but, I-I’ve failed haven’t I? How can I not blame myself?” He pushes your hand off his lap again and buries his head in his hands. “I knew you were miserable,” he says in between his fingers, “I knew it! And yet I allowed myself to forget the very essence of the person you are in favour of keeping you safe. I forgot that you needed your friends, your activities and God damn it _me,_ to keep you from sinking into that mind of yours. I forgot how much you wanted to be ordinary and how putting you in a safe house was the least ordinary situation I could have put you in. I could see how difficult you were finding it, but I persuaded myself that in time your feelings would lessen, that in time you’d be fine…I am a fool.” He closes his eyes. Tears trickle out of them nonetheless. “To think that I could have ignored something so important!” He grasps at your hand instinctively again and strokes it as he tilts his head back. “God damn it F/N,” he says as he opens his eyes again. “I don’t want to talk about this mess now. I just want to reminisce about the past and talk about the future we should be having. I should have asked you to marry me. I knew you wanted me to that first night at the safe house, but I-I didn't want to ask you there, you deserved more than that, if I’d known…but I-I guess I just wanted to believe, wanted to hope that we had more time, _all_ the time in the world for things like that…” he trails off and shakes his head. He doesn’t want to think about the future. He takes a moment just to let out a few breaths and compose himself. “Do you remember when we first met? I felt so pathetically embarrassed about you seeing me in my underwear,” he swipes away the tears with the back of his hand. “You had such a quick hold on me my dear…I-I didn't know what was going on with me. I wanted to spend every moment I could with you and learn everything about you,” he pauses, “I still do.” He leans across and brushes a hand against your hair. Your hand falls off his lap as he does so. “Sorry,” he sniffs, leaning back and re-claiming your hand. He takes a moment just to trace your fingers with his. “You talk about me changing, but you've learnt a lot too, you know, and changed…using the fire as a distraction technique, having to go through all that you have, but does that mean, just because we've both grown and changed, that you have to die today?” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t F/N. It shouldn't do…as long as we still love each other, as long as we can still see the beauty inside each other, and, I know you've always thought of yourself as being damaged, broken, but I’ve never seen you that way. I hope you know that my dear,” he squeezes your hand. “You've always been beautiful to me. If-if you could reply now you’d probably say that if you were you’re not any more, not in this bed, not when you’re so-so vulnerable…but you are. I can still see the beauty inside you F/N. I can.” He squeezes your hand tighter. “Please, please my dear,” he implores, “Come back to me.” His lip trembles. “I love you, I love you, and I-I don’t get half of the nonsense you've put in the letter about-about granting people their freedom, but I-I do understand that throughout it all you still love me, so-so please, I beg of you…come back to me.” His shoulders vibrate with a small shudder. He looks back to the letter as if it might give him guidance and then back to you. “Maybe if-if I can get through to you how silly your words are, you’ll-you’ll see sense and stop all this… this _madness,”_ he nods, resolute even though you don’t reply. “You can’t just grant people their freedom F/N, you just can’t. They make it through their own choices, good or bad, a-and do you really think that I feel free now?” he exclaims getting angry, “Well, I don’t! I don’t!” He lifts your hand up and bends clumsily to kiss it, as if apologizing for his raised voice. “Do you really suppose that I’ll-that I’ll be able to just get up off this bed as soon as you’re-as soon as you’re gone and just carry on with my life? That it will be _that_ easy for me? Are you so unaware of how much I love you? Have I not-have I not kissed you long enough? Hard enough? Have I not _done_ enough?” His breathing is heavy and his body shudders. Again he takes a few moments just to compose himself. “I'm not free,” he tells you, “B-But,” he looks back to the letter and then at you again, “Maybe, out of all of us, you can achieve that.” He swallows and begins to stroke rhythmically at your hand, staring hard at your face. “You've always, ever since we first met, had a mysterious quality about you my dear. Perhaps some of it was because of the secret you were hiding, but I-I think that, that quality has always been a part of you, as if you were meant for some higher purpose. As if you weren't really meant to be walking around here on Earth with the rest of us.” He swallows. “So, a-as much as I still don’t understand all of your words, maybe I understand more of them than I thought. Maybe I can still do something for you, a-and set you on the path you were always meant to go on. Perhaps,” he pauses, “Perhaps all the time you've spent with me was just an interlude between you actually achieving what you’re supposed to, but I”- again he takes a moment to gather his thoughts-“I need you, I want you to know that, I don’t regret any of it, except this and every time I-every time I wasn't good enough, I need you”- he places your hand gently aside and swings around so that he’s crouched on his knees down by your side. “I don’t want to give you up. I-I'm sorry my love,” he nuzzles his head with yours, “But I can’t-I can’t just give you up, I can’t give you, your freedom, because I…I need you here.” He squeezes his eyes shut. Tears stream down his face. You don’t stir. “Please F/N,” Mycroft says, opening his eyes, “I-I’ve never known love like yours,” he leans back and brushes a hand persistently through your hair. “Please.” Still you don’t stir. Mycroft’s heart sinks and he feels sick. “But I need to don’t I? Gregory he said, that’s what you need from me now isn't it? You need me-you need me to recognize what I haven’t before. You need me to let you go, not selfishly keep you here.” He swallows, nods and stands up. Something trembles inside him. “All right,” he tells you, “All right. I will not let you down any more,” he bends to kiss you on the forehead. Then he straightens himself up and turns to march towards the door. 

 

The nurse, whose been patiently waiting outside for him all this time, looks at him when he opens it. 

 

Mycroft clears his throat and brushes away his tears a little. “I'm ready,” he finds himself saying even though in reality he is far from being so, but he remembers what he’s just told you and doesn’t add anything to his sentence. He will do what he needs to. He will be strong. 

 

But when the nurse follows him back into the room and heads towards the machine that’s keeping you alive he finds that the word, “Wait,” spills out of his mouth. She pauses, turns on her heel and looks at him, no doubt expecting him to have another go at putting the moment off. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Just-just let me try something,” he pleads. She nods, though there is little patience in her eyes. She’s been working a long-shift and her tea break was due over an hour ago. Encouraged nonetheless Mycroft moves around until he’s on his knees by your head once more. He takes hold of your hand. “F/N,” he mutters conspiratorially in your ear, “If you can hear me then please just give me a sign. If you-if you’re not ready to go or are destined to stay here after all then just blink or squeeze my hand. Even if it’s the lightest of touches. The smallest of signs. Let me know my dear, let me know _now.”_ He stills and holds his breath, keeping his eyes open and fixed on your face. His whole body is tense and ready to feel the slightest shift of your fingers against his. But there’s nothing. He lets out a little breath. Growing more desperate, he says into your ear, “Please F/N, please, please my love, give me something, something to say that you want to stay here.” Still you don’t move and finally it dawns on him sickeningly that there is nothing to be done. “Can I hold her?” he asks, looking down at the side of the white bed sheet rather than at the nurse or you. 

 

“Of course,” the nurse says, and buoyed up by the fact that an end is coming to all this procrastination, she sounds less severe and more understanding. 

 

He swallows and rises to his feet once more. 

 

Slowly, as you become freer of wires he manages to slip into bed behind you and hold you to him. Your head lolls against his chest until he moves you so that you’re resting more comfortably against his lap. If it wasn't for absolutely everything-the room, the nurse, the tears streaming constantly down Mycroft’s face-then perhaps the pair of you could have been resting in bed, both of you sated in a post-coital glow with Mycroft running his fingers reassuringly through your hair as he is doing currently. The nurse clears her throat. Mycroft looks at her. She’s only got to switch the machine off. Then, unless you prove somehow capable of breathing by yourself, your life will fade. He swallows and nods. His fingers tighten around your shoulders as the beep of the machine stops. Your breaths are slow and laborious, as if part of you is still struggling to stay with him. Still fighting. But Mycroft knows better now. Knows that this is the way it’s meant to be. It’s time. He bends his head and speaks softly into your ear. “It’s okay F/N,” he says, “It’s okay, you can go now.” As if you've heard him your breathing stops just a moment later. Mycroft listens as the sound of it fades from the room. Once its gone he takes a minute just to appreciate the weight of what’s happened. Slowly he disentangles himself from you and lowers you back down on the bed. “You’re free now,” he tells you, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead. Not bearing to stay or look at you again he leaves the room without another word. 

 

*

 

Everyone tries to look after Mycroft, but Mycroft doesn’t want to be looked after. He alternates between trying to sneak into work and keep some sense of normality going, only to be sent home by Anthea each time and pacing back and forth in the flat, crying and yelling and screaming himself hoarse. When he’s not doing that he spends his time arranging your funeral and brooding on the matter of what to do with Moriarty who’s awaiting whatever fate Mycroft decides in a small cell. In his moments of utmost rage Mycroft feels that having the Irishman thrashed within an inch of his life, maybe even further, would be appropriate considering what he’s put everyone-and in particular _you_ -through. But then, every time his weary sensibilities have returned to him, he gets the feeling that violence isn't the answer. Quite often it’s only by pulling your pillow close to his nose and hugging it tightly to him that he becomes sensible again. Not that he gets much of such moments overall because Mummy-who has taken your death as if you were her own child-and Father-who too seems prone to crying over the matter and can be spotted frequently dabbing at his eyes-seem to think that he must not be alone at any moment of the day. They, Gregory, Molly and John [Sherlock at least knows better] all herd around him, trying to draw him into conversation and get him doing things, not giving him a moment’s peace, until when the forty-eight hour of this nonsensical behaviour is drawing close, Mycroft finally snaps at Mummy over the washing up of all things, saying that all he wants is to be left alone. He does get more moments alone and time to brood after that, but still he can hear his family and friends pottering around his flat as they find an insurmountable number of things to clean. It’s enough to send him burying his head into your pillow again. Is it odd, he wonders, that the only person he wants to discuss your death with is you?

 

Just over twenty-four hours before your funeral and a whole five days after your death you come to Mycroft in a dream. You meet each other in a white, empty room that could quite easily be some version of Heaven. All Mycroft knows is that at seeing you on the other side of this odd, blank room his heart jumps and he feels alive again. He rushes forwards, crashing headlong into a thin, transparent barrier that’s set up in the middle of the room. You smile sadly at him, looking as beautiful and mysterious as ever as you take in the way that he places his hands palm-down on the glass that’s preventing you from being with him. 

 

“F/N!” he attempts to call you. _“F/N!”_

 

His words sound muffled because of the glass, but still you approach him. You stand in front of him. He pushes at the glass with his hands, trying to either break through or get you to lift your hands up too. You shake your head. 

 

“You have to get over me,” you tell him. 

 

“I don’t want to, I'm not ready,” he pleads with a breathless kind of fervour. 

 

You frown. Slowly you lift a hand up to the glass. Your palms would be firmly against each other if it weren’t for the barrier. 

 

“I love you,” you tell him, lowering your hand all too soon, “But what you’re doing isn't healthy, shutting yourself away, keeping Moriarty”- Mycroft had been frantically attempting to push against the glass, but he stops and looks back at you properly as you mention the Irishman. You shake your head knowingly at him, before you lean forwards against the glass, pushing your hands to his. Mycroft closes his eyes, trying to imagine the feel of you. When he does you let out a laugh at the silly smile that forms on his face. Suddenly the glass fades between you and you act as if it was never there in the first place. You both smile as your bodies and hands come breathlessly together as one. 

 

“I’ve missed you,” Mycroft says, ducking his head down close to yours and grazing his lips against your neck. To his eternal delight you shiver against him and he wraps his arms around you. Your hands go up to his chest. 

 

“I’ve missed you too,” you breathe. Mycroft lets out a groan as your earnest words tickle against his ear. “But you can’t,” you say, pulling back from his embrace, “You can’t just go keeping hold of Moriarty. You need to let him go. One of the reasons I did what I did, as you well know, was to give you your freedom. By holding onto him you’re only making things worse. You’ll never be free of everything unless”-

 

“He killed you,” Mycroft growls, surfacing from your neck now. He feels your breath tremble against him. “You may have walked into that sea, but everything, it all leads back to”- 

 

“Promise me,” you urge, grasping hold of his cheeks now with your hands, “Promise me that you won’t take out all your anger on him. Promise me that you’ll never be the sort of man who turns to violence.” He doesn’t answer. “Promise me! I don’t want you to be that man!” you cry, your eyes shiny and desperate now as you shake him. “I don’t want you to sink to that level just because of him! Just because of me!” 

 

The force of both your words and your hold on him has him waking. He feels irritable, full of pent-up emotion. He dresses, and as he does he mutters, “You overlooked the fact that your death, rather than freeing me, would just fuel my anger towards Moriarty even more, “ with a twist of irony in his voice. For if Moriarty had never started his silly vendetta against you, if he’d never gone into your room that night…it’s a long list of if you never’s, but at the end of it is you and the happiness that you should be having right now with him. He can see you banging at your side of the glass-screen, begging him not to do this, even as the thoughts come to him. But at the end of the day why the hell shouldn't he take his anger out on Moriarty when Moriarty’s responsible for the loss of the best thing he’s ever had? If you appreciated and saw yourself the way he did, if your positions were reversed, then he’s sure you’d do the same. He storms out of his bedroom, ignoring Gregory whose come over to do the morning-shift of watching him, and leaves the flat without any breakfast. At work Anthea tries to send him home, but as soon as he tells her that he’s decided on Moriarty’s fate she shuts up, knowing that he’s so angry there’s no sense in even arguing with him. 

 

When he’s standing behind a two-way mirror, which he can see through to the other side to, but they can’t see through to him, and watching one of his men whip Moriarty as he lies topless stomach down on a table he feels quite numb. But too stubborn to call the whole thing off now, with every slash of the whip against the Irishman’s skin, Mycroft finds himself muttering a word that represents you.

 

“Beauty,” he murmurs, causing Anthea-who’s standing beside him and on her phone as usual-to look at him strangely as he watches how Moriarty, with his hands tied behind his back, jerks as the leather catches against his skin. A dribble of blood makes its way slowly down his side. “Intelligence,” Mycroft says, remembering your love for reading and the study sessions he’d shared with you at university, as the whip comes down onto Moriarty’s back once more. Moriarty doesn’t yell out, despite all the pain he must be experiencing. In fact, as Mycroft studies his face he sees that the man looks quite devoid of emotion. “Humour,” Mycroft remarks, casting his mind back to your playful nature in the swimming pool over the summer all those years ago and every teasing remark you've made to him since, every time he ever had cause to tickle you. “Love,” Mycroft murmurs softly, _“Love”-_

 

“I know you’re there,” Moriarty drawls suddenly, shifting the position of his head ever so slightly so that he comes to be looking transfixed at the exact spot Mycroft’s standing, even though he can’t possibly see him. 

 

“Love,” Mycroft says, clearing his throat and drawing himself up to his full height as he does his best to ignore the man. Anthea’s eyes flick up from her phone. 

 

“I know you’re watching,” Moriarty continues, “But you can beat me, water board me, burn me, heck you can even peel off all my skin if you like. It won’t bring her back.” Mycroft swallows, all his anger fades from him and all of a sudden he’s just left with his sadness again. Out of the blue he sees you in front of him last night, holding onto his cheeks and begging him. He opens his eyes without even realizing he’d closed them and lets out a breath. He’s been a fool again. 

 

“Release him,” he orders a moment later, turning around and making to walk out of the room. 

 

 _“Sir?”_ Anthea starts, whirling around so that she can follow his progress. 

 

He stops. “I won’t repeat it again,” he says, continuing his journey to the door. It slams shut behind him. 

 

*

 

When he gets home that night, thankfully, for the first time his flat is devoid of parents and friends. He walks straight into the bedroom, only slipping his shoes off, before he throws himself onto the bed without a care. He cries and gets angry all over again, this time for letting you down by being the sort of person who does turn to violence after all. “I'm sorry,” he says, “I'm sorry.” He pulls your pillow close to him and sobs into it. His wracking cries fill the otherwise silent flat. 

 

*

 

He wakes up early that morning, just as the first rays of light are streaming through the windows and creeping towards the bed. His head feels heavy, groggy, whilst his mind feels slow. His muscles are stiff and his arms are still loosely draped around the pillow. He lets out a groan of discontent and shuffles closer towards it. He lifts his head up and checks the time. It’s just gone half-past five. He lowers his head. He has no desire to get up. Or a need to. He already knows what day it is. 

 

By quarter-to-six the idea of just not going to your funeral has occurred to him. By half-past-six he’s resolute. He won’t be going. He scrunches his eyes shut and tries to sleep. 

 

It’s half-past nine and he’s just in that part of where he’s drifting in and out of sleep when he hears a knock on the main door, followed by noise and the babble of chatter as no less than a crowd of people enter the flat. 

 

Mycroft swings upward into a sitting position and blinks blearily at the same time as a determined looking Sherlock and an apprehensive John burst into the bedroom. 

 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft says, “What are you doing here?” 

 

Sherlock gives him a bit of a pointed stare, before he looks around. 

 

Mycroft huffs out a sigh. “I'm not going.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes slide to the vertical pillow that Mycroft’s evidently been clutching onto during the night. Mycroft’s jaw clenches a little when he sees where his brother’s gaze has gone, but he does not make to move the pillow. 

 

“Mycroft your girlfriend’s funeral is in an hour and a half’s time. You’re going,” Sherlock says as his eyes swing back up. 

 

Mycroft stares at him. John takes the cue of silence as an opportunity to walk over to the wardrobe, which still has Mycroft and some of your clothes side by side inside it. John flings it open, but-

 

“I can’t,” Mycroft’s cracking voice fills the air, “I’ve already said goodbye to her, I just _can’t,_ I can’t go through that again”-

 

John looks around anxiously. 

 

“You’re going,” is all Sherlock gets out, because he can’t have his big brother falling apart like this, he just can’t, before Molly, having heard Mycroft’s cries, comes into the room. 

 

She takes one look around, before she gestures for Sherlock and John to leave in a, ‘I’ll take care of this,’ fashion. 

 

Mycroft swallows as Molly, all dressed in black and with grief-ringed eyes, sits down on the bed. “Now,” she says, grasping hold of his hand, “I’ll tell you how this is going to work because I honestly don’t want to be burying F/N today either,” she pauses for breath and Mycroft nods. “You’re going to get dressed and then together we’re going to go to church and help each other through it.” Mycroft just stares at her, lost in the fog. Molly swallows, pats at his hand. “You can look at me if you want to get out of there, or of you just need someone to help you get through it all okay? I know parents tend to be overbearing about these things and since Sherlock’s got a tendency to be brash”- Mycroft lets out a watery snort-his first in days-and nods. 

 

But in the next moment his eyes fill with tears and he asks, _“Why?_ Why did she have to go?” in a strangled voice. 

 

She shifts closer to him and rubs at his arms. “I don’t know, I don’t know,” she murmurs with worried eyes, whilst he bows his head and sobs. She swallows again and breaks the remaining distance between them. He buries his head in her shoulder and she strokes at his hair soothingly. “My father used to say that caring wasn't an advantage. He said, ‘you’re going to get your heart broken going around caring like that’”- Mycroft looks up at her hazily. She tries to smile at him encouragingly as her fingers tighten on his skin-“I think, with the way you loved F/N, the way you cared for her so deeply, you can probably appreciate, that in a way, he had a point. But even so, that doesn’t mean we should just give up on it all does it? F/N wouldn't have wanted us to do that. She’d want us to keep loving, keep caring.” Mycroft nods dumbly. She rises slowly from the bed. “Get dressed,” she murmurs, before she leaves the room. 

 

Mycroft waits a moment, just staring blankly ahead of him, whilst he takes in her words. Then he slides clumsily out of bed and makes to put his clothes on. 

 

He swallows once he’s done and studies himself in the mirror. He doesn’t much care about his appearance, but the day is for you after all…

 

His suit, dark and pinstripe, feels a little looser around his shoulders and waist. He hasn't exactly been taking care to eat as often as he should, despite everyone’s attempts to push three square meals into him. Often he’s been leaving more than half of his food untouched. It will do though. It’s not too noticeable. He adjusts the cuffs of his white shirt and straightens his dark tie. A pang hits him at the thought that you’ll never be there to smarten him up. Never be able to straighten his tie or brush invisible lint off his shoulders. He clears his throat, runs a comb once through his hair and then staggers out into the living room area. 

 

“Oh Mykie,” Mummy says as soon as she sees him. She-dressed all in black-moves forwards and takes him into her arms. He pats her lightly on the back. 

 

“There, there Mummy, F/N wouldn't want you to be making a fuss now would she?” he says, though his brief stab at trying to put a brave face on dies on his lips. 

 

He receives a hug and a squeeze of his shoulder from Father next, whilst Mummy blows her nose prominently. 

 

He steps back, about to suggest that they should probably be going, but before he can Gregory steps forwards and hugs him tightly. Mycroft-finding that he suddenly needs to-hugs him back. 

 

“We’re all here for you mate,” Gregory breathes into his ear. 

 

Mycroft nods robotically, stepping back. “You've been a good friend to me Gregory.” He looks around. There’s Molly, who had been so kind to him just now, and John too, looking uncomfortable as he stands close to Sherlock. “You all have.” His eyes go back to Gregory as he suddenly feels the need to add, “I-I'm glad that she-that she had you with her when she, well that the last thing she saw was a friend, someone who cared for her.”

 

Gregory swallows, looking stricken. 

 

No one knows what to say, so they all file out. 

 

In an ideal world you’d be buried alongside your parents. Mycroft feels sure that you’d have wanted that and he’d done his best to get that arranged. Yet, in the end, and since by unfortunate circumstance you wouldn't have been able to be anywhere near them, it had been decided that you’d be put in a London cemetery, where you would, at the very least, be guaranteed more frequent visitors. 

 

Sherlock, John, Gregory and three of Gregory’s trusted police officer friends carry you in. Mycroft finds that as the service in the pretty church begins he feels rather numb as he sits in between his parents, shoulder to shoulder with Father and with Mummy clutching at his hand. Rather incapable in fact of believing that he’s really attending your funeral. Even staring at your coffin doesn’t help. He closes his eyes as the vicar drones on. ‘I'm still here,’ your voice says. He opens his eyes. Of course you’re not there. He inhales a large gulp of air. Mummy looks at him concernedly, perhaps thinking that he’s about to faint, but he ignores her gaze and looks instead across to where Molly’s seated on the other side. She meets his gaze and nods as if to say, ‘I'm finding this hard too, but I’ll stay as long as you do.’ Her eyes are damp. Mycroft looks away. 

 

After the burial takes place and you are in the ground, surrounded by greenery that Mycroft’s sure you would have appreciated, not to mention in a perfect spot for the sun to catch against your headstone once it is in place, he doesn’t stay long. The others go on to the wake where late that night a firework display will be set off by Gregory, Sherlock and John in your honour, but it is not the place for him. He needs to be at home with his own thoughts and memories of you. 

 

Outside the flat a thin, black umbrella leans against the door, waiting for him. A gift tag is attached to it. Mycroft’s fingers curl around the bottom of the tag and lift it up. _So you’ll always remember,_ is written on it in a thin, spidery scrawl. Mycroft doesn’t think he’ll ever forget, but as he reads it he knows that this is Moriarty’s way of making sure he never forgets how he failed you. 

 

*

 

Mycroft’s carried the umbrella ever since. 

 

 **Epilogue-January-Five Years Later**

 

The flat is light, vibrant. 

 

On a rare day off work Mycroft eats his breakfast with a fervent desire to get it down him and begin the day ahead. 

 

He gets up from the table and carries the bowl to the sink when he’s done, passing and nodding at the framed picture of you that sits on the white shelf in front of the pale, yellow wall. The colour of the wall was Anthea’s choice, not his. She’d jokingly teased that it might lift his spirits. Oddly enough it had. 

 

Talking of the devil she peeps out of their bedroom in her black dressing gown, her hair mused as she raises a bleary hand to her face and complains, “I thought this was supposed to be our day off?”

 

He smiles, “All the more reason for us to get up.”

 

“I can think worse ways of spending the day than in bed,” she comments, before catching sight of how he’s in his usual suit she asks, “Are you popping out?”

 

He goes across to her. “I won’t be long,” he murmurs, kissing her briefly on the forehead, before he goes out into the damp drizzle. He takes his usual black umbrella with him. 

 

Anthea shakes her head after him and goes to make a cup of tea.

 

*

 

Mycroft crouches down so that he can stare at the familiar grey headstone. F/N L/N, it says, _The woman who wanted to be ordinary. A beloved daughter, friend and much-missed partner,_ it reads, along with the usual dates of birth and death. 

 

“Now,” Mycroft says, looking at the red roses that he’d only left last week, “These could do with a bit of a trim couldn't they?” He takes a small pair of clippers out of his pocket and begins to trim the stems of the roses carefully. His eyes flick back to the headstone as he does his work. “This isn't exactly a social call I'm afraid. In fact I’ve come to tell you something.” Mycroft leans back and frowns a little. He doesn’t get these moments of self-consciousness as much any more, but when they come they come and he finds himself wondering what people would make of him, the British government, tenderly attending to flowers and whispering conspiratorially with a grave as if it’s his best friend and most trusted confidante. It is though. You are, he reasons, so; breaking out of the moment he leans forwards again and goes back to his work. “You can probably guess what it is my dear. You've always been so perceptive,” he tells you, picturing you sitting on an armchair in front of him, rolling your eyes with your legs crossed. He swallows, tries again. “I know when you were alive,” he cringes, “You’re _still_ alive,” he corrects, and he can almost see you rising out of your chair now and putting a soothing hand onto his cheek. He swallows and closes his eyes, grateful for your presence as always. “That you didn't exactly appreciate Anthea,” he opens his eyes. “But she’s been good to me, you know she has, after you…after you went I-I was _so_ lost, for the longest of times, but she was there for me.”

 

 _‘Yeah I wonder why that would be?’_ he can almost hear you say, full of sarcasm. 

 

He frowns and stares at your grave as if you've personally sullied him, abandoning his work with the clippers, before he throws them aside. “Don’t take that attitude,” he says reproachfully, before he leans even closer to what he now sees as your head and hisses, “You know, I know you do, that Anthea’s been good for me. She’s looked after me when I needed it and talked a great deal of common sense…I-I’ve felt my feelings, feelings I never expected to have again, grow beyond reason for her.” He clutches onto either side of the headstone as if it is your very face, his head tilted down towards your shoulder. “Christ I-I love her,” he breathes as the first tears begin to prick out of his eyes, “You know, you _know_ the agony that, that’s caused me, ever since I realized it two years ago, you know, of course you do, what with me coming to talk to you here all hours of day and night. God knows what people must have thought if they’d seen me, a slap-dash dressed madman ranting and raving here with the full moon above me.” You laugh and he lets the sound of it fill the air for a moment. He smiles a little, before he goes on more desperately, “But I love her, I love her F/N.” He lifts his head up and his nose brushes against the headstone when it really should be your own nose that it’s coming into contact with. 

 

 _‘I know, I know you do,’_ you say as soft as the breeze. Your tone is sad, regretful but not unkind. _‘I want you to be happy Myc,’_ you add, and he shivers as if you've just said the very words into his ear. 

 

“I'm trying,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead against the cool stone. He can feel you taking him into your arms. “I'm trying to get to a place where I can be that, fully and wholeheartedly. That is why I came today. I needed…I needed to show you”- he breaks off and fumbles in his pocket. “I wanted you to be the first to see,” he takes a small red, velvet box out of his pocket, exhales and flips it open. “What do you think?” he asks, his voice apprehensive, as if he’s genuinely nervous about you rejecting the ring even though it isn't for you. You take a moment to consider. The ring is an expensive looking one; a small, studded diamond nestled on top of gold. It’s classy rather than flashy. You send a beam of light down across the corner of the headstone. Mycroft beams, pleased by your response. He clears his throat, flips the box shut and hurriedly stows it into his pocket again. “I'm trying to do better this time. I lingered too long before, we wasted so much time”- he breaks off, his tone regretful because how much he would have loved it if ‘wife’ was inscribed on the headstone rather than ‘partner,’ which was the most he felt could be put in the circumstances. 

 

 _‘I know,’_ you breathe, close to his ear, one of your hands still on his shoulder. 

 

“I'm learning, or trying to, from all the mistakes I’ve made,” he tells you, letting out a little breath as he leans back. 

 

 _‘You’re doing well,’_ you smile encouragingly, but it’s only a half-smile. The light across the headstone fades. 

 

Mycroft frowns, looks up. “What is it?” he murmurs, his brow furrowed in concern. He can hear you letting out a little watery laugh as you try and dismiss it as you just being silly. _“F/N?”_ he questions, not so easily convinced. 

 

You wipe your tears away, before you go back to clutching at his shoulder. _‘It’s just’-_ you sniff. He waits patiently for you to continue. _‘I guess it just occurred to me that when she says yes, you won’t really be able to come and see me as much any more.’_

 

Mycroft looks down and considers your words for a moment. “Well,” he begins, looking up again, “I'm glad that you think she’ll say yes”-

 

 _‘Who wouldn't if Mycroft Holmes asked them?’_ you quip in a tone that’s partly light and partly bitter. 

 

Mycroft’s lip twitches. “But I think again you’re letting your old view of Anthea cloud”-

 

 _‘Old? Who says I’ve changed my mind?’_ you interrupt incredulously. 

 

“You approved the ring,” Mycroft reminds you. 

 

 _‘Yes the ring, not her,’_ you say, getting more worked up. Mycroft stares maddeningly at you. _‘Fine!”_ you say with a wave of your hands. _‘I'm glad that you've had someone being there for you! I'm glad that you’re in a position where you can be happy and in love again! I'm glad that you’re still not pretending that having sex with her is just fulfilling a carnal urge’_ \- Mycroft blushes- _‘I'm happy. Truly,’_ you finish. Then, as if just to prove a thing you send the beam of light back down across the headstone. 

 

Mycroft smiles and looks down. He shifts one of the roses with his fingers to bring it back against the group. “I don’t think Anthea would mind,” he says, “She hasn't minded the photographs of you that I keep around the flat. I’ve tried to be mindful and respectful of her of course,” he fiddles with a stem, “But she seems quite at ease whenever I talk about you. Maybe she wasn't at first, but she certainly is now…” he swallows. He imagines you retreating further back from him, perhaps to sit down in your armchair. He looks up at the headstone. “You know of course that I should probably come a little less.” You nod. “That it’s”- he clears his throat again, “Probably healthier if I-if I don’t come as regularly.”

 

 _‘I think I’ve been quite lucky,’_ you say, sweeping up and taking him into your arms. He can feel your soft breath against his ear. _‘Not many dead girlfriends would have had their dedicated boyfriend visiting them nearly every day for the last past five years.’_ He looks at you. Sees your e/c eyes clearly in front of him. _‘Go now,’_ they tell him, _‘We’ll always be a part of each other and we’ll always love each other, but you’re right, you need to let go more, so instead of saying goodbye all over again why don’t you just stand up, turn around and take the first steps towards your new life?’_ Mycroft swallows and nods. He will not hurt either of you any more. He grabs the clippers up in his hands and stows them safely back into his pocket. He picks up his umbrella and stands. 

 

“I’ll be with you soon again my dear, maybe not tomorrow but soon,” he gets out in a tremulous breath, taking a couple of steps backwards. “You’ll always be a part of me.” You nod, not looking at him and it starts to drizzle again. He knows that this is you crying. He swallows. “Thank you for understanding,” he adds quietly, before, with tears streaming down his own face he turns and hurries away. 

 

He doesn’t go home straight away, but that night he proposes. Anthea says yes. Who wouldn't if Mycroft Holmes asked them?


End file.
